


Solnishko

by ZoyciteM



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Branding, Chastity Device, Cock Piercing, Corset Piercing, Dark fic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Did I Mention It Was Going To Be Dark?, Does It Count As Hurt/Comfort If The Comfort Is Coming From An Evil Mafioso?, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Evil Castiel, Gang Rape, Genital Piercing, Get It Done In One Take, Hand Feeding, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, It don't get a whole lot more Stockholmy than this, It's three words, Jesus Christ So Much Non Consensual Body Modification, Kidnapped Sam, Kidnapping, Lightning Quick Mention of Bestiality, Look I'm really sorry okay??, M/M, Mental Abuse, Minor Character Death, Mobster Castiel, NOT Hurt/Comfort, Non-Con Relatively High-Budget Pornography, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pegging, People as Pets, Physical Abuse, Piercings, Pretty Much Non-Consensual Everything, Prolapse, Prostitute Sam, Psychological Torture, Recreational Drug Use, Russian Mafia, Sam Whump, Seriously Only For Guests, So Blame Her, So many non-consensual piercings, Solitary Confinement, Squickeriffic Torture, Strap-Ons, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tattoos, The Only Bit Of Sunshine In This Fic Is In The Title, These Tags Are Absurd, Tongue Piercings, Torture, Towels Are For Guests, Twink Sam, Very Dark Fic, Very Very Dark Fic, Whipping, cr0wgrrl Helped Me With The Tags, facial piercings, forcible confinement, near-drowning, no happy ending, seriously, this is not fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 93,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8398594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoyciteM/pseuds/ZoyciteM
Summary: Another AU - Castiel is older, Russian, and has frightful power and connections.  Sam is just a dirt poor club kid and occasional hustler that happens to catch his eye.





	1. Meet Cute

**Author's Note:**

> Another AU. Sorry about that.
> 
> Heed the warning tags - this one isn't fluff and smut. This is not Hurt/Comfort. There is no happy ending here.
> 
> Let me know what you think, okay?

Sam had been dancing in the club, the bass pounding through him, girls and guys both grinding against him on the floor, skin slick with sweat in the crowded space, when a hand touched his arm.

Now, Sam admitted he'd been drinking, and okay, maybe he'd popped some E earlier. But at most he was a little tipsy, and there shouldn't have been any way that the dark blue letters across the fingers on his arm weren't quite English. 

_That... that N is very definitely backwards..._ Sam frowned and looked up the darkly-suited arm attached to the hand. Above the stark white collar of the shirt, a broad, pale face was grim, under dark hair so short that it was nearly scalp.

“Please.” A Russian accent, thick like mud. The English sounding uncomfortable in his mouth. “My employer would like a word. Come.”

Sam hoped that this wasn't going to be one of those scenes where he got mistaken for a hustler again. Yeah, he was in club clothes, a tight little white Hello Kitty t-shirt, translucent with sweat, and jeans that were more holes than fabric, but he didn't do that.

Any more.

Well... unless money was, like, really tight.

Which, in all fairness, it was. He really should've bought some food instead of blowing his last forty bucks on E. But a night at the club helped take his mind off his otherwise pretty uniformly shitty life – the part time job at the bookstore and the lecherous landlord who cut Sam a break on the rent because he was just _so pretty, so so pretty_ on his knees.

The suit said money. Sam nodded, running a hand back through damp hair, and followed the man's broad back from the crowded floor, up the stairs, and into the more quiet, darker VIP area. Sam had always wondered what it was like up here.

It turned out that it was really pretty nice. Curved couches, low tables. The dance floor could still be seen through the glass partition, but most of the sensations of noise and light and density of bodies were lost.

Sam had a moment of curiosity – had the Russian guy's boss been perving over him from up here?

A heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder, moved him in front of a couch. “Sit.”

Sam sat, glancing across a table crowded with glasses and bottles to the men on the couch opposite. There were three of them, and a few more standing, but Sam's eyes snagged on the one in the middle, who was staring intently at him.

Blue, ice blue eyes. Dark hair, peppered with just a little grey. A dark tattoo spiralling up the side of his neck. What was clearly an expensive suit, the top few buttons of the shirt undone, showing more dark ink.

Without breaking eye contact, the man reached for a martini glass, picked it up, and sipped, staring at Sam over the rim. Sam saw the same jumbled letters on the man's fingers.

Sam was beginning to wonder what the hell he had walked into here. Like everyone else, he'd heard the stupid rumours that the club – the entire neighbourhood - was owned by the Russian mafia, but those were just stupid stories, right?

But these guys were serious as fucking cancer, all of them sharply dressed, in the VIP, and fucking _Russian_.

Sam suddenly felt quite underdressed. It was a lot cooler up here than on the dance floor, and his sweat was cold against his skin. Sam shivered. He wondered if it was maybe the E, he'd had chills from it before.

One of the men standing said something in what Sam assumed was Russian, and took a step towards Sam, frowning. Sam recoiled, but the man first stopped moving, and then withdrew slowly.

A glance at the blue-eyed man showed him with a single finger held up, in the direction of the man that had made a move on Sam. The blue-eyed man's eyes were still locked on Sam.

 _Holy shit._ It was pretty clear which one was in the position of authority here.

“Your name.” The blue-eyed man spoke at last, his voice low and rough. Strangely, though, without the thick accents of his coworkers. Perhaps just a hint of it, at the edges.

“S-Sam?” Sam offered, growing progressively more worried and frightened.

“Sam.” The man smiled at him, just a little. It didn't seem very reassuring, somehow. “My name is Castiel Krushnic.”

Sam simply blinked, unsure what to say.

“Can I interest you in a drink?” Castiel gestured fluidly to the table in front of him.

Sam glanced down at the table, seeing all manner of things spread across it. Bottles and glasses, a tray covered in an assortment of pills, a square mirror with neat lines of cocaine on it. Though tempted by the coke, Sam's eyes locked on some pills that looked an awful lot like E, pale yellow tablets with stars pressed into them. He grabbed two, popping one in his mouth and dry swallowing it, and pocketing the other against future need. Sam was reaching for a glass and a bottle (what he thought might be vodka, though without a single word of English on it), when cool fingers touched his wrist.

Sam pulled back, startled, his eyes darting up, and meeting Castiel's, who had leaned over the table towards him and was smiling.

“Perhaps not such a good idea, to combine those pills with alcohol, hmm? You could _endanger_ yourself.” Somehow, he managed to roll the word 'endanger' around his mouth, as though he were enjoying it.

Sam frowned, and reached again for the bottle and the glass, pouring himself a substantial amount. “Pretty sure I know what I'm doing, gramps.” He couldn't contain the cough as he downed a searing mouthful, wondering what the _hell_ proof that shit was, to burn like that.

Castiel sat back, a grin spreading across his face as Sam's eyes watered and his face reddened under the heat from the drink.

Sam was watching Castiel warily, as a fresh wave of sweat broke out over his skin. He wasn't entirely sure when they'd turned the heat up, but it was suddenly a bloody furnace up here. Sam tossed his head, shaking his hair back. “Look, man. I don't know what you want, but whatever it is, I'm pretty sure I don't do it.” Sam tried to sound confident. “Or... or you can't afford me.”

At this point, Sam wasn't even really sure what he was trying to say.

Castiel raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Can't afford you, hm? I'm fairly sure I can, if all a blowjob costs from you is a few dollars off your rent.”

Sam's blood ran cold.

“Or a few hundred, to fuck your ass, when you're particularly strapped for cash.”

Sam actually wavered, listing slightly to the left, his mind blank with shock. _How could this man know_??

Castiel glanced down at his hands, taking his time straightening the cuffs of his shirt, under his jacket. After a long moment, he looked back up at Sam, his face perfectly placid.

“W-what do you want from me?” Sam's voice was small, his bluster from earlier having completely deserted him.

“I own the building that you live in, Mr. Winchester.” Sam jolted at the name - _no one_ knew his last name, no one. Every piece of ID he had said Wesson, and he'd left Winchester behind a long time ago. “I own the club you dance in, I own the bookstore you work in. I own the alley you sell your ass in.”

Sam trembled against the comfortable couch, every single nerve in his body and every single instinct _screaming_ at him to run.

But where, exactly, would he run to?

Sam swallowed hard and tried to work up a little courage. He wasn't entirely successful at keeping the waver out of his voice. “What do you _want_? Can I... can I go, please?”

“But we're only just beginning our conversation.” Castiel sounded amused. “You're enjoying my drugs, my alcohol. Are you not enjoying my company?”

Sam stood abruptly, and as he turned to leave, a heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder. He tried to squirm out from under it, and it clenched painfully tightly. Sam whimpered, craning his neck around to see who had him, to find the one that had asked him to come up here, when he had been dancing.

Another hand dropped onto his other shoulder, straightening him, and making him face Castiel, who had reclined a little, putting one expensive-looking shoe up, against the edge of the table.

Sam had the sudden feeling that his life had suddenly been split into two parts – everything that had happened before he had walked up these stairs, and everything that had happened since. He didn't seem to be able to stop the tremors that ran through him.

Castiel sighed and stretched, and climbed to his feet, approaching Sam. He stopped directly in front of him, and despite the inches that Sam had on him, Sam felt very much like a mouse, in front of a very hungry cat.

Castiel's hand lifted to Sam's face, and Sam flinched, but all Castiel did was brush back a strand of sweat-damp hair that had stuck itself to Sam's cheek. “Ah, the things I would do for you, _solnishko_.” Castiel sounded almost wistful, a crooked smile on his face.

Sam was too frightened to really understand what Castiel had said, trembling under the tight grip that his henchman had on Sam's shoulders. Sam just needed to get out, to get away from Castiel, from the threat, from the frightful amount of information Castiel had about him, from everything. To suck a couple of dicks for enough money to get on a bus, and never look back.

There was a gentle tap on his cheek, and Sam's attention snapped back to Castiel, who was still smiling that same smile, seeming completely unaffected by Sam's terror, which _had_ to be painfully obvious.

“Please, sit. I have a proposal for you.” Castiel gestured back to the couch and turned, returning to his spot and picking up his glass.

Sam panicked, trying to writhe out of the grip on his shoulder, but another hand snagged his left wrist, wrenching his arm up and behind his back. The pain made Sam gasp, and he stilled, knowing that moving the wrong way when his arm was in that position was likely to pop it out of socket. The goon that had him forced him back down on the sofa, hands still cruel on his wrist and shoulder. Sam gritted his teeth, watching Castiel through eyes filling with tears.

“Ah, see? Your first lesson. There will always, _always_ be an easy way, and a hard way. If you had simply sat when I invited you to, you wouldn't be hurting right now, would you?” Castiel tsked softly, and smiled apologetically. He reached for a decanter, on the table, and poured a glass of ice water for Sam, placing it on the table in front of him. “Drink, before you dehydrate.”

Sam tried to blink away the tears, watching condensation form on the glass. He tried to gather the attitude that he'd walked up the stairs with. “Think... do you think you could get Boris here to let me the fuck go? He's... he's got my good hand.”

Castiel chuckled. “Use your other.”

A wave of anger rose within Sam. _Who the hell does this asshole think he is?!_ Sam reached carefully for the glass, and picked it up with fingers that were only trembling a little bit. He stared Castiel straight in the eye as he deliberately dropped the glass, which smashed explosively on the floor. “Oops.”

The slightest flicker of annoyance crossed Castiel's face, before he smiled. He toasted Sam with his martini glass, winked, and spoke some soft words in what was probably Russian to the man holding Sam.

Sam managed to choke off his scream as the man holding him neatly dislocated his shoulder, and forced him, hard, to his knees on the floor in front of the couch. His right knee and shin came down in the broken glass, and it cut easily into the bare skin and worn denim. Sam tried to struggle back up, but the man kept him down.

Sam lowered his head, managing, for the most part, to keep his pain to himself. He let his tears fall freely, and kept his mouth clamped shut, not trusting himself not to sob. He watched through blurry eyes as a pool of blood spread slowly from under his knee, diluted in the water and flowing around bits of ice and broken glass. His shoulder was a mass of agony, and he didn't dare move his arm.

Sam barely saw another glass of ice water placed on the edge of the table in front of him. Castiel's voice was utterly calm. “Drink, before you dehydrate.”

Sam panted hard through his nose, two disparate forces warring in his head. One was the scrapper, the independent, the one who acknowledged no one's power over him, furious and indignant at Castiel's treatment of him. The other was self-preservation, and helpfully pointed out that he was nineteen, scrawny, and completely surrounded, overpowered and outnumbered by _the fucking Russian mafia_.

Pragmatism won. Sam picked up the glass with a shaking hand, and drank.

“An easy way, and a hard way, _solnishko_.” Castiel's voice was soft.

Sam wasn't sure what it was that Castiel had called him – twice, now – but imagined it meant something like 'slave'. Or 'trash', or 'whore', maybe. The rest of the water was a cold weight in Sam's stomach. He placed the glass carefully on the table when it was empty.

More murmured Russian from Castiel, and Sam was roughly hauled back up onto the couch, and cruel hands snapped his shoulder back into its socket. Sam didn't manage to stop his groan. He could feel the blood trickling down his right shin, could feel the glass embedded in his skin. He kept his head lowered, staring at the floor, utterly still.

“Ah, but you are _so_ beautiful when you're obedient.” Castiel mused.

Sam's hackles raised at the thought of being obedient to _anyone_ , but he kept his stillness and his silence. 

“So. I do hope you'll entertain my proposition. Give up your shithole apartment, your miserable job. Stay with me, and you'll never want for anything, ever again.”

“No.” Sam croaked out, working on the logistics of getting the fuck out of town in his head.

Castiel chuckled and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Do you _really_ want me to tell you what the hard way would be?”

“Fuck you.” Sam's anger was rising again, helped in no small part by the aching burn in his shoulder and the cuts on his knee and shin.

“The hard way is a life in a concrete cell, chained and naked and alone. There's a bed, but it's not for you. It's for your _guests_ , my friends and employees, who I'm sure you'll do your very best to be accommodating and enthusiastic for. You'd likely never see the light of day again.”

Sam froze, still staring at the swirls of his blood in the water on the floor.

“Or you could spend your days poolside, working on your tan.” Sam couldn't see Castiel's smile, not with his gaze downcast, but he could hear it.

It took Sam a few long moments to work up his courage. “L-look.” Sam cursed the hesitation, cursed the stutter. “If you don't... don't want me in your... your city, I'll go. I'll get on the next bus and go as far away as I can get.”

Castiel tilted his head just a little to one side. “But this is the opposite of what I want. Why else would I have plucked you from the dance floor, and given you the choice?”

Sam was utterly silent.

“So I'll give you one more choice, Sam. The easy way or the hard way. The easy way will be to walk with me to my limo, and to ride with me to my estate, and I will show you our bedroom, and your new home.”

Sam stiffened at “our bedroom”.

“The hard way will be that I will have my colleague inject you with a powerful sedative, and when you wake, you'll be in your cell and prepared to begin entertaining my guests.”

Sam's mind whirled. “The... the easy way.”

Castiel clapped his hands together and grinned, delighted. “Wonderful choice. Shall we?” Castiel stood, as did his men. Sam nodded, just a little.

Sam was hoping that the group would be going out the front door, and that he could yell and scream and get _someone's_ attention. Anyone's. But he was led down the stairs and out a rear entrance, Boris's hand tight around his upper arm.

The moment he stepped out into the cool night air, Sam yanked his arm free, and ran like hell. He didn't even make it a half a dozen steps before something hit him in the back, and it felt as though he'd been electrocuted, filled with agonizing pain. Every muscle stopped responding, and he collapsed in a heap. He managed not to scream, but it was a close thing.

As he lay panting, cheek wet and gritty against the dirty pavement, terrified that the pain would start again, he saw a figure crouch before him. He heard Castiel's soft sigh, and felt the gentle brush of fingers against his cheek.

“My _solnishko_. Must you always choose the hard way?” Castiel sounded profoundly disappointed. Regretful. “Perhaps when I see you next, you'll begin to make better choices, hmm? This was not what I wanted for you.”

The gentle hand cupped Sam's cheek, and a thumb brushed lightly across his bottom lip. Castiel stood, murmuring in Russian to his men before moving away.

Sam wasn't sure what was coming, but there was no way it could be good. He tried weakly to get up, but a hard boot between his shoulderblades shoved him back down against the pavement. A second pressed, cold and wet, against his cheek, and Sam felt the pinch of a needle in his shoulder. 

The drug hit him rather like a freight train, and the men hauled him to his feet, loose-kneed, dizzy and disoriented. They turfed him into the back of a van with benches along both sides. The men sat on the benches, and Sam was forced to lie face-down on the rough floor. The door slammed, and the van started up with a rumble. Sam tried to push himself up, but his arms didn't seem to want to listen to him. He managed to lever one underneath himself, lifting slightly, and one of the men cuffed him very hard across the back of his head, chuckling. Another kicked Sam's arm out from under him, and he flopped back down against the floorboards of the van, winded and impossibly dizzy.

Sam closed his eyes as the men laughed at him, and the drug swept him under.

 

*

 

Sam woke naked in the room that Castiel had promised him.

There were thick steel cuffs around his wrists and ankles, and a heavy steel collar at the base of his throat. All of them had heavy metal loops welded onto them. Sam was surprised to find that none of them were actually attached to anything – he wasn't chained down.

The room itself was bare, spartan, save for a large, luxuriously appointed bed against the far wall, flanked by night tables, and a dark wooden armoire. The walls and floor were bare concrete. There was a small nook in the corner, with a sink, toilet, and shower stall. Light was provided by a few dim bulbs in the ceiling, behind steel grating. Each corner of the ceiling was outfitted with a small camera, red LEDs blinking down at him. There was a steel grate set in the middle of the floor.

Sam shivered, cold and disoriented and a little dizzy, still, from the drugs. He pushed himself up to sitting, eyeballing the comfortable bed with equal parts longing and deep distrust. He knew it'd be soft and warm and welcoming, and everything his spot on the concrete floor wasn't. Castiel's words about 'entertaining guests' echoed through his head.

Sam's mind and attention wandered, until he noticed the steel rings set into the walls. A lot of them, at different heights and intervals. He stood on shaking legs, eyes scanning as he turned in a slow circle. He saw the rings set where he had been sitting – two high and spread well apart, and two similarly spread, near the floor. Sam knew that if he were standing, fastened to those rings, his arms and legs would be spread wide, and he'd be completely and utterly unable to defend himself.

Sam swallowed hard, trying to force his fear down, lest it choke him. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying not to shiver.

He tottered towards the bathroom nook, noticing it was actually fairly well stocked with bath supplies and fluffy white towels. Sam would bet his bottom dollar, though, that those supplies weren't for him, just as the bed wasn't. He used the facilities and washed his hands, not daring to touch the soft towels. He rubbed his hands down his thighs, to help them dry.

Sam was pretty sure that the cold, by now, had seeped into his bones, and thought he'd have a shower to try to warm up. The controls for the shower were clearly marked, and he set the temperature to between warm and hot, before lifting the lever to start the water.

The water was ice cold as it hit Sam's skin. He grit his teeth and tried to bear it, waiting for it to warm up.

It didn't.

After a couple of agonizing minutes, Sam stepped out of the path of the spray, teeth chattering, and turned the dial to as hot as it would go. He shivered violently as he waited a few more minutes, cold water dripping from his hair and down his back, before tentatively sticking a hand into the water, which was still icy.

 _Motherfuckers._ He turned the shower off.

Sam moved to the sink, turning the hot as high as it would go... and nothing. Nothing but iciness out of the taps.

Sam grit his teeth, cursing Castiel and his entire organization in his head. The hot water, like the towels, like the bed, was apparently also reserved for _guests_.

Sam wasn't sure if the cameras would be picking up audio, but he tried anyway, yelling at the one closest to the door. “It's gonna be your own fucking fault, if I die of hypothermia!!”

Furious, Sam snatched one of the towels from the rack, rubbing it against his sopping hair, and over his frozen skin. He warmed a little, but only a little, and his eyes kept coming to the bed, which was undoubtedly soft and _very_ warm.

The door to Sam's cell banged open, and Sam jolted. It was Boris and one of Castiel's other henchmen, who Sam privately decided to call Natasha. Sam wrapped the towel around his waist and lifted his chin, trying for defiance, but he wasn't sure he succeeded. The two men stalked towards him, and Sam couldn't help flinching backwards.

“L-look, I'm...”

“Shut. Up.” Boris's voice was low and even. He grabbed Sam by the shoulders, fingers cruel on the one that was still aching, and pushed him face first against the concrete wall. One hand moved to the back of Sam's neck, above the collar, and the other grabbed the towel, yanking it off of him.

Sam heard something open, and wasn't sure what it was, as his face was turned towards the washroom nook, and he couldn't see what the other man was doing. He heard a clinking noise, as of chain, and panicked. He tried to squirm out of Boris's grip, but he was just too massive, too strong. Sam was forced harder against the wall, Boris's suited weight pressed against his back, a knee forcing Sam's legs apart. Sam couldn't stop his whimper.

A rough hand grabbed his right wrist, and Sam heard something _snick_. His arm was yanked roughly up, more clanking of chains and another _snick_. The same procedure happened with his right ankle, his left ankle, and his left wrist – carabiners and chain fastening him tightly, spread-eagled against the wall, metal cuffs hard against his wrists and ankles.

Boris moved away, and Sam shook, frozen and utterly terrified, against the wall. He turned his head, and saw Natasha at the armoire, the contents mostly blocked by his large back, but what Sam _could_ see made a high-pitched whine escape his mouth.

Tools for torture. Whips, gags. A silver instrument Sam thought may have been for removing teeth. Knives. Sam clenched his eyes shut, praying that this was all some horrible dream.

From directly behind him, Boris's low voice, thick Russian accent. “Towels are for _guests_.”

There was whoosh, and a strip of searing pain was laid across his left ass cheek. Sam howled, another whoosh, and agonizing pain across his upper back. Over and over again, one of them hit Sam with something that Sam was pretty sure was taking his skin off. Sam shuddered and sobbed, his cheek against the rough wall.

It seemed to go on forever, before the blows finally stopped. Sam was limp in his bonds, his skin searing, his throat raw and aching, his face glazed with tears.

There was a long moment of silence. Boris broke it. “Who are towels for?”

“Guests!” Sam whimpered.

“Full sentence, please. Who are towels for?”

“T-towels are for... for guests.” Sam forced the words from his battered throat.

The two said not one more word as they released Sam's bonds. Sam crumpled to the floor in a heap, stifling his whine as the welts on his ass met the cold concrete floor. Sam shifted to get the pressure off of them, trembling, lying mostly on his front, one leg curled in a sort of half-fetal position. 

Sam kept his eyes closed, hearing the clinking of the chains, and the sound that Sam now knew was the armoire opening and closing. The door opened, and closed a few moments later.

Sam gave himself permission to cry, knowing he was alone. His body shook with it, his tears dampening the concrete.

The door opened. Sam stopped his tears, breath stopping in his chest, every muscle tense and afraid, eyes still tightly closed.

Gentle fingers trailed over one of the welts on Sam's upper back. Castiel's voice was soft and sad. “Ah, _solnishko_ , no...” Sam didn't relax under the kind touch, wired tight with tension. The gentle hand unstuck Sam's hair from his cheek, where it was glued there by the residue of his tears. It tucked the hair behind Sam's ear, and soft fingertips trailed down the edge of Sam's jaw.

Sam wanted to move away from the touches, he really did, but he was exhausted, frozen and starving, and every inch of him seemed to ache. And as much as he knew Castiel was the source of all of this pain and misery, there was so much sadness in Castiel's voice, and the soft touches were so very, very different from the lash he'd been beaten with.

“Why, why always the hard way, hmm?” Sam stayed silent. “You know this was simply a warning, yes? There could have been a parade of guards, all fucking you one after another, as you tore and bled and screamed against the wall.” Castiel's hand stroked through Sam's hair as he trembled. “I could have let them smash your teeth out, to make it easier to fuck your throat.”

A small, terrified noise escaped Sam's mouth, without him intending to let it.

“Please, please choose the easy way. I didn't bring you here for you to rot in this cell. I brought you here to bring us _both_ pleasure. Do you understand?”

Sam couldn't even think, through the whiteout panic.

“Let me take you upstairs, put you in a warm bath. Get these off.” Castiel hooked a finger through one of the loops on Sam's heavy collar, and gave it a gentle tug. “Put some cream on those welts, make you a little more comfortable, hmm? Perhaps some dinner?”

The things that Castiel were offering seemed too good to be true. There was _no way_ that it was simply that easy – to walk away from the hell of this cell, from Castiel's horrifying threats, into... warm baths and hot food??

And yet Sam knew he couldn't do it... he couldn't stay here, in this room, with those threats looming over him. He couldn't suffer and bleed and cry, and know that there were always far, far worse things they could do to him.

Sam forced himself to nod, just a little, his eyes still shut tight.

Castiel clapped his hand together in delight, and the sound made Sam flinch. “Wonderful!” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a keyring. One by one, Castiel removed the heavy steel restraints from Sam, tsking softly and rubbing lightly at the abraded skin. “You needn't worry, your new bonds will be gentler, much less likely to damage.”

_New... new bonds?_

Castiel hesitated as he moved to loosen Sam's collar. “One other small thing, _solnishko_. You know my name, but you may never use it. Understood? You may address me as _gospodin_. Say it.”

“ _Gos... gospodin_.” Sam whispered, trying to mimic Castiel's pronunciation.

“It means sir, though it has other connotations.” Castiel smirked, lifting the accursed collar from Sam's neck. Sam bit back his sigh of relief. “My name for you, it means sunshine, because you are so very beautiful.” 

Castiel helped Sam to his feet, and wrapped an arm around Sam's waist, pulling Sam tight against his side, Sam weak-kneed against him. He led Sam to the door, and opened it, pausing with Sam just inside it. When he spoke, his words were lower, and just for Sam. “Know that this cell is waiting for you, dear one, should you choose the hard way, at any point in the future.”

Sam choked, panic swamping him.

Castiel's voice grew a little more stern. “Say, 'yes, _gospodin_.'”

Sam was trying his hardest not to run like hell, knowing it would be futile, and only end up with him back in the cell. “Y-yes, _gospodin_.”

“Good boy.” Castiel pressed a swift kiss to Sam's cheek, and led him away from the cell.


	2. Home Sweet Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo. :D
> 
> I hope you guys like it!
> 
> (Also, the title of Ch 1 was 'Meet Cute', if you missed it.)

It was everything Sam could do to stay on his feet, pressed against Castiel's side as he was led down a long concrete hallway, with a sickening number of doors that looked exactly like the one he had emerged from. He closed his eyes tight, nausea swelling within him at the thought that there may be others down there, imprisoned as he had been.

Castiel stopped, and Sam opened his eyes just a little. There was a soft beep as Castiel swiped some sort of plastic card against a black box beside blank metal elevator doors, which opened smoothly, revealing dark wood panelling and tiles which were cold under Sam's bare feet as Castiel pulled him inside.

Sam spared the panel a quick glance, seeing four other floors. Castiel touched the mother of pearl button beside the top one. Sam closed his eyes as the elevator began to move smoothly.

Castiel's silence was beginning to worry Sam a little, but he didn't think he'd done anything ( _yet_ ) to incur his displeasure. Sam kept his silence as they walked from the elevator down a plushly carpeted hallway, to a set of plain double doors, wood richly grained and stained nearly black. Another swipe of the card, another soft beep, and Castiel was ushering him through the doors.

Sam's jaw dropped. An expansive living room area was sparsely furnished, shades of cream and charcoal, looking like something out of a magazine. The far wall was nearly entirely windows, overlooking a flawless expanse of empty sand and deep blue ocean. Sam could hear the sound of it, even through the glass. There was an open-concept dining room and kitchen, with more granite than Sam would have thought possible. A hallway to the right led further into the suite.

The only thing that seemed out of place were... cushions. Large, square, soft-looking cushions, on the floor, beside the sleek sofa, the dining room table, and one in front of the windows.

Before Sam could even think to ask what they were about, Castiel was leading him down the hallway. More doors, and one of the ones they passed had one of the black boxes near the doorframe.

The bedroom that they walked into didn't disappoint. Minimalistic furniture, and the biggest bed Sam had ever seen in his life, with an elaborate black metal canopy, vines and leaves and flowers draped with sheer black fabric. The blankets and sheets were shades of rich plum and burgundy.

Sam swallowed hard, seeing the narrow black mat on the floor, beside the bed, and another cushion at the foot.

Castiel pulled Sam towards the bed, and Sam balked, not at all ready for anything that Castiel might want him in the vicinity of a bed for. Castiel frowned up at him, grip tightening around Sam's waist.

“Be good, _solnishko_. Come. I promised you care, a bath, food. Choose the easy way, hmm?” Castiel's voice sounded as though he were trying deliberately to keep it calm and level. Sam allowed himself to be positioned so that he was sitting perched on the edge of the bed, gritting his teeth as the soft fabric met the welts on his ass.

Castiel moved to the nightstand, where there was a pitcher of water, and two crystal glasses. He poured a glass, and returned to Sam, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Here. To help you relax.” Castiel held out his palm, on which was a small white pill, unmarked. Sam looked from the pill up to Castiel, who was watching him intently, and then back down to the pill.

Sam had no way of knowing what it was, what it was going to do to him. But he knew what would happen if he _didn't_ take it. He reached a trembling hand and picked up the small pill. Castiel handed him the glass of water, and Sam swallowed down the pill with some of it, before handing the glass back to Castiel. Maybe, if he was lucky, it'd help him not remember whatever was going to happen next.

“Good boy!” Castiel's smile was radiant, but Sam couldn't help his flinch as Castiel stroked fingertips down his cheek. Castiel sighed.

Castiel unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, and Sam watched him roll up his sleeves. He moved out of Sam's line of sight, and Sam tried to turn his head to follow, but it made him a little dizzy, so he stopped. A few minutes passed, and there was a rustling sound behind him, but it didn't seem important enough to investigate. Nothing at all seemed important, really. He let his eyes flicker closed, and slumped a little. Being horizontal suddenly seemed a great deal preferable to sitting upright, so Sam let himself fall bonelessly backwards onto the bed. He heard Castiel chuckle. Castiel's blankets really were tremendously soft, and they didn't even hurt against the welts on his back. Now that Sam thought about it – nothing hurt, actually. It was nice.

It struck Sam suddenly that he ought to be worried, that he _knew_ there was danger here, but it just didn't seem very relevant right now.

A soft touch against Sam's left ankle made him start, and he lifted his head, seeing the top of Castiel's, where he seemed to be kneeling on the floor beside the bed. Something wrapped snugly around Sam's ankle – leather, it felt like – and Sam heard a soft click. The same thing happened to his right.

It didn't hurt, so it didn't worry Sam terribly much. He let his head fall back, and felt the cool leather wrap around his left wrist, and then his right. Two soft clicks. Sam looked over at his right, once Castiel was finished with it, seeing a thick leather cuff, dark brown, about two inches wide, with two integral D-rings opposite one another. Secured with a lock. 

Sam stared at the lock. He could feel the panic trying to rise within him, but it was somehow muted, blocked. All he could do was stare, transfixed.

“Sam. _Solnishko._ Sit up for me.” Castiel's voice seemed to come from a fair ways off, but Sam could hear it well enough, could understand what it meant. And the knowledge of what would happen if he didn't comply was still firmly in place. He struggled to try to sit back up, managed to get an elbow under him, before needing to pause, feeling dizzy.

“Perhaps a little too relaxed.” Sam blinked up at Castiel, seeing him smiling as he helped Sam to sit up. Castiel steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. Sam saw a matching leather collar in his other hand.

That strangled panic fought to rise again, and Sam lifted a weak arm, pushing away the hand that had the collar.

“No.” Something arctic cold slipped into Castiel's voice, and it chilled Sam to the bone. He let his arm fall back down, and trembled as Castiel fastened the leather snugly around his neck. The soft click of the lock felt like the last nail being driven into Sam's coffin.

“See? Much better than the metal cuffs, hmm?” Castiel's hand was warm and heavy against the back of Sam's neck, over the collar and the hated lock. Sam was silent, and Castiel's fingers slipped between the leather and Sam's skin, pulling the collar tight enough that Sam choked.

“What do you say, if I ask you a question?”

“Y-yes, _gosp-gospodin_ ,” Sam choked out of his compressed throat, and Castiel let go of his collar. Sam coughed weakly.

“You're on thin ice, dear one. I do not expect perfection just yet, but I _do_ expect respect.”

“Y-yes, _gospodin_.” Sam's whisper was a little slurred. He lowered his head, closing his eyes, hoping somehow that this was all some sort of horrible dream. It _felt_ a little like a dream, like he wasn't sure if he was awake or not.

“Now. Come, a bath, and then some dinner.” Castiel hauled Sam to his feet, bent over, and scooped him up into a bridal carry. Sam blinked as a wave of dizziness washed over him, and let his head drop onto Castiel's shoulder. Castiel pressed a kiss to Sam's hair and led the way to the spacious ensuite.

Sam's awareness seemed to phase out of focus for a short time, and when it returned, he was curled on Castiel's lap as the bath filled, feet dangling in the warm, bubbly water, Castiel's arm wrapped securely around him. The room seemed to be lit by dozens and dozens of small candles.

It struck Sam suddenly that the leather wrapped around his ankles was in the water, and seemed to be swelling, stiffening, tightening. He lifted his feet from the water, not sure he was meant to get the leather wet.

Castiel's face was mostly shadowed as he lifted Sam and settled him gently in the tub. Sam tried frantically to keep the cuffs out of the water, and Castiel chuckled.

“It's fine, Sam. The water will not damage the cuffs. They won't be coming off, and so by necessity they'll be getting wet fairly regularly. Not to worry.”

_Won't... won't be coming off??_

Sam whimpered softly, lowering his arms and legs back into the water, his welts aching against it even through whatever it was that Castiel had given him.

“I know, it hurts.” Sam let Castiel tilt his head up, and Castiel ran warm water back through his hair. “But it's best you learn your lesson. The pain is a good reminder for you.”

Sam was utterly passive as Castiel washed him, utterly silent. After the bath, he led Sam back to the bedroom, and had him lie face-down on the bed. Though the cream helped, Castiel was a little rough with applying it, and it _hurt_. Sam bit his lip and tried not to cry. Whatever he'd been given seemed to be wearing off, and Sam began to tense under Castiel's touches.

“You're never to come up onto the bed unless invited, understood? You sleep on the mat, and if you're permitted up here, realize that it is a privilege.”

“Yes, _gospodin_.” Sam whispered. Coming out from under the haze of the drugs, Sam wasn't sure what to do. He needed to escape, obviously, but how?? The elevator needed the key card, and there were probably guards...

“Hmm.” Castiel sounded skeptical. “Will it be necessary for me to keep you drugged, to keep you compliant?”

Sam realized that his body was one long line of tension, under Castiel's hand. It took a colossal effort of will, but he forced his muscles to relax. “N-no, _gospodin_.” He couldn't escape if he was too drugged to even think, much less walk.

“Good boy. Come. Let's have some dinner.”

Sam levered himself up and off of the bed, feeling substantially more coherent. He hesitantly took the hand Castiel offered to him, and followed him into the dining room. Some bags of takeout food had been placed neatly on one of the kitchen counters, and Castiel pulled down a plate from a cupboard, two wineglasses, and some cutlery from a drawer.

“I apologize that I'm not much of a cook. Do you cook, Sam?” Castiel pulled a metal dog food bowl from a cupboard, and Sam's eyes widened.

Castiel frowned over at him, as Sam steadied himself with a hand against the top of the dining room table. He put the bowl down, and stalked over to Sam, who took a frightened step backwards, and then another.

One of Castiel's hands grabbed his shoulder – the injured one – and the other shot up, sinking itself into Sam's damp hair and clenching hard. Castiel shifted to Sam's side, and before he knew what was happening, a blow against the back of his left knee sent him crashing to the floor. His head was wrenched back, and Castiel's face loomed above him.

Sam saw a blank sort of neutrality there... one that he was rapidly learning meant that Castiel was very angry indeed. “S-sorry! I'm...” The hand from Sam's shoulder was clamped over his mouth.

“No. No more words. I've warned you once. Now, stay here. I'll be right back.” Castiel let him go, and stalked off down the hall. Sam's heart rabbited in his chest, and he didn't dare move.

Sam heard the soft beep of a door acknowledging a key card, and a few moments later Castiel returned, with... something, in his hand. Sam trembled, and Castiel walked to the kitchen. Sam lowered his head and his gaze. He wasn't even sure what it was that Castiel had gotten from the locked room... there had been leather, and a bewildering variety of straps...

There was a sharp tap on his head, and Sam raised his gaze a little, to see a glass of water being held in front of him. Sam took it with shaking hands and drank it as quickly as he could, feeling a little sloshy afterwards. He held the glass back out to Castiel,who took it. He heard the _thunk_ of it hitting the table.

The next thing Sam heard was the jingling of buckles, and he lifted his head a little, trying to get a better idea of what was going to happen.

Sam's heart stopped.

“Lift your head, and open your mouth, _solnishko_.” Castiel's voice was flat and even.

It was some sort of... gag. A harness, with a sort of leather cup that would go over his chin, and a... short, thick rubber cock, that would go in his...

“Sam. _Now._ ” That horrific iciness slipped back into Castiel's tone. Fighting the desperate urge to panic, to flee, to beg, Sam tilted his head back, but he couldn't make himself open his mouth. Castiel frowned, and placed the harness on the table. Turning back to Sam, he stroked a hand through his hair before clenching again, and with his other hand, he jabbed his thumb, viciously hard, into the spot just below Sam's right ear, behind his jaw.

Sam _shrieked_ , the pain agonizing, and Castiel didn't stop, didn't let go. Sam's arms came up, trying to pull Castiel off, but his grip was like iron. Sam scratched welts into his forearms, sobbing, until Castiel finally, _finally_ let go. He hunched over, still choking out his sobs.

“Lift your head, and open your mouth.”

 _An easy way, and a hard way._ Sam got the distinct impression he was on his final chance, before earning himself a trip back down to the cell in the basement. He tried to calm himself, his sobs devolving into sniffles. He sat up straight again, and lifted his head, and forced himself to open his mouth, trying to ignore the ache below his ear.

Castiel slipped the rubber cock into his mouth, forcing his jaw to stay open around it. There was an awful rubber panel at the base, which sealed against his open mouth. The leather cup sat snugly over his chin and jaw, dipping below his nose. Two straps ran up from the front on either side of his nose, to a strap which ran around his head. One from the base of his jaw ran up and over the top, and another around the back of his neck. Sam breathed hard through his nose, trying to stay still. The moment Castiel was done with the buckles and straps, Sam lowered his head and gaze again, his eyes still filled with tears. The rubber was a noxious flavour in his mouth, pressing his tongue down.

“If you're not able to answer politely when I ask you a question, you forfeit your right to speak.” Castiel's voice seemed a little calmer. Sam kept his eyes on the floor. He heard the bags rustling, and smelled delicious aromas of what he thought was chinese food.

Castiel's legs paused in front of him, and there was suddenly a terrific amount of pressure on the front of his neck, from the collar. Castiel hauled him up by it, until Sam stood on shaking legs. He coughed through his nose, his throat feeling crushed. Sam kept his head down, and saw the large pillow moved into his line of sight, near the chair at the end of the table.

“I'm not totally unreasonable. You may still use your cushion. Sit or kneel on it as you please.” Sam watched the chair be pulled back, and knew Castiel had sat. “And don't touch my furniture.” An annoyed afterthought.

Sam sank to the cushion on his knees, before moving to sit on his rump, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around them. He pressed his forehead against his knees, trembling. His stomach growled loudly at the smell of the delicious food. He ignored it, as did Castiel.

It seemed like a very long dinner, to Sam, as he sat muzzled on his cushion. It was an even longer evening, on the cushion beside the couch, as Castiel read quietly and completely ignored him. Sam kept his eyes closed and listened to the sound of the ocean, let it lull him into something approaching calmness. The leather against his skin dried, but it was definitely tighter than it had been before the bath.

He jumped as Castiel snapped his book closed. His eyes flickered open, and there was darkness beyond the windows. He tensed, waiting for Castiel's command.

“Get up. Come.” Sam scrambled to his feet and hurried after Castiel, who had strode off down the hallway. He followed him shyly into the washroom. Castiel had picked up a toothbrush and some toothpaste, and gestured Sam towards the toilet. “Sit. Go.”

Sam flushed scarlet, sat, and relieved himself as instructed, as the water before he'd been muzzled had definitely caught up with him. He waited patiently for Castiel to finish at the sink, and washed his hands. He reached towards the hand towel hanging from a brushed metal ring, before recoiling violently, as though burned. _Towels are for guests_.

Castiel laughed out loud at him, swept an arm around his waist, and pulled Sam's front against him. He leaned up, and kissed the leather of the muzzle, over the rubber, over Sam's spread lips. “Come, dear one. Let's go to bed.”

Castiel took Sam's hand and led him towards the bedroom. He stripped, carelessly tossing the expensive clothing into a hamper, until he stood naked. Sam tried to peek surreptitiously at his tattoos... they were extensive - most of his arms, chest, and back were covered. There were a bewildering assortment of images, and writing Sam couldn't read. He stood very still as Castiel folded the sheets and blankets down.

“There will be nights when you may be permitted to sleep on the bed with me, if your behaviour improves from what I've seen of it today. Lie down.” Castiel gestured to the mat beside the bed.

Burning with humiliation, Sam laid down on the narrow pad, on his back. He shivered a little... it was colder on the floor than he'd thought it would be. Castiel fetched a thin blanket and laid it over Sam, tucking him in. He reached under the edge of the bed, and Sam heard the clinking of chain.

Sam fought panic, staring straight up at the ceiling as Castiel connected the length of chain to the loop on the front of his collar with a lock. At the soft _snick_ of the lock, he closed his eyes.

He laid there for a long time, utterly unable to sleep, despite Castiel's breathing having evened out and deepened hours ago. The sound of the ocean was muted here, and it wasn't enough for him to use it as a distraction.

Sam was on the floor, naked, muzzled, cuffed, collared and _chained to a Russian mobster's bed_. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out how this was supposed to have been 'better' than his old life.

It struck him that it wasn't meant to be better than that... just better than what waited for him in the cell downstairs.

Sam didn't want to cry, but he couldn't stop his tears.


	3. A Romantic Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope it's okay. :)

Sam watched the light level rise in the room, shivering and dizzy with exhaustion, cheeks crusted with his tears. All he could smell and taste was the rubber in his mouth, and he wondered if Castiel would let him choke to death on his own vomit, were he to throw up from the hideous taste and smell. Sam somehow thought he wouldn't care much.

He probably had a bunch more kids, imprisoned, like Sam had been.

There was a soft grunt, and rustling of the blankets from the bed above him. Sam's eyes darted to the edge of the bed, but Castiel didn't rise. He relaxed a little against his thin sleeping pad.

Sam had been watching dust motes dance in a strip of sunlight for what felt like hours when Castiel's head appeared over the edge of the bed. His hair was mussed, and his eyes puffy.

“Good morning, _solnishko_.” Castiel's voice sounded like he'd been gargling broken glass. He stretched languorously on the bed, yawning. He ran hands back through mussed hair and sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. His feet landed on the floor, one near Sam's ribs, and the other near his hip. Sam's heart stuttered with fear as Castiel stared down at him and frowned.

“Did you sleep?” Some of the roughness of Castiel's voice smoothed itself out.

Sam forced himself to shake his head, no. It didn't help the dizziness much.

Castiel's frown deepened. “I'll give you something to put you to sleep, after breakfast. You'll need your rest. You'll be learning your duties soon.” Castiel climbed to his feet.

 _Duties?!_ Sam tried hard to be still and calm.

Castiel spoke while he pulled on some dark red sleep pants, of some silky material. “Breakfast will go one of two ways. If you promise to be polite, I'll take off the gag and you can eat on your cushion beside me. If you're not certain you can manage that, I'll simply leave the gag in place, insert a nasogastric tube, and feed you by syringe.”

Sam's fear got the better of him, his vision grayed out, and he gasped panting little breaths in through his nose, feeling as though he was suffocating. Gentle hands lifted him, helping him to sit, and the chain fastening him to the bed slid, cold, down his chest. There was a warm arm around his back, the low rumble of Castiel's voice and his lips against Sam's temple, but the steel pooled cold in Sam's lap.

He knew he couldn't do it. He couldn't be what Castiel wanted, and Sam knew it was only a matter of time before he ended up either back in the cell, or dead. Sam's tears started up again, and he couldn't make them stop.

He wasn't even aware that Castiel had undone the buckles on the muzzle, until it was being pulled away from his mouth with a ghastly, sticky-dry sort of suction. He coughed wetly, heaving in a huge breath reeking of rubber, and the smell made him vomit searing acid, right into his own lap.

Castiel murmured something that wasn't in English, and Sam felt fumbling on the front of his collar. A moment later, Castiel was lifting him, heaving him up with a soft grunt, and Sam was being carried.

Sam jolted as he was set down against something hard and very cold, forcing his aching eyes open. Castiel had set him in the tub, legs spread and leaning forward a little, and had moved off to the sink. He returned quickly, bearing a glass of water and offering it to Sam.

“Rinse. Spit.” Castiel's voice didn't have any of that angry coldness that Sam knew to fear, which confused Sam a little. He took the glass, swishing cool water around his mouth, before spitting it in the direction of the drain. He did it a couple of more times, before Castiel took the glass away. Sam rubbed the back of a shaking hand across his mouth.

“Drink.” Castiel watched him as he did, draining the cool water, which was soothing against his throat. Castiel plucked the glass from his fingers when he was done, setting it aside.

Castiel rinsed him off after that, warm water against his skin followed by sweet-smelling soap on a soft cloth, shampoo and conditioner smelling of raspberries. The leather at his wrists, ankles, and throat swelled and tightened again.

Sam kept his eyes lowered, on his own limp hands. He wasn't exactly sure what he was feeling... was there a limit to how long a human being could be completely terrified? But it wasn't fear, or not _only_ fear, not exactly...

_Terrorized. That's the word you're looking for. Terrorized._

There seemed to be some sort of block between Sam's overwhelming need to flee and the control over his own muscles. A paralysis. Something that let him sit completely still under Castiel's touches. It made Sam want to vomit again, when he realized he was grateful for it.

The same block seemed to be preventing Sam from choking on his own hopelessness. Helplessness. Stifling his slack sickness at the utter lack of control Sam had over any aspect of his own life. Castiel could drug him, beat him, starve him, rape him, and there wasn't a goddamned thing Sam could do to stop it. 

Castiel's voice was low and soft, near Sam's ear. “You're dehydrated, starved, exhausted. I want to help you with these things. Let me help you, Sam.” A warm hand, gentle over the back of Sam's neck, over his collar. The hand gave a gentle squeeze.

Sam wasn't sure if Castiel actually wanted a response from him or not. It wasn't as though Sam could really give one anyway. He seemed to take Sam's silence as assent. He helped Sam to his feet, and dried him off. As Castiel was finishing, Sam's very wobbly legs gave out, and he would've slammed to his knees on the bathroom floor had Castiel not caught him. 

He helped Sam stay upright after that, putting a toothbrush and toothpaste in his hands and positioning him in front of the sink. Castiel's body was warm behind him, bare chest pressed against Sam's back, his hands on Sam's hips. Sam had a feeling Castiel was watching him in the mirror, as he brushed the foulness from his mouth, but he didn't lift his eyes high enough to check. He carefully placed the toothbrush on the counter afterwards, aligning it with the edge of the sink.

He was careful not to let the tips of his fingers touch the countertop.

“Good boy. Come.” Castiel moved beside Sam, slipping an arm around his waist and leading him from the bathroom and down the hall. “I know you're tired, but we need to get some food into you first, some liquids. Then I'll help you sleep.”

Sam couldn't stop shivering. He wondered vaguely if Castiel's 'help' was going to be painful.

Sam's cushion was still beside Castiel's chair, at the dining room table. Castiel guided him down onto it, and moved to the couch. There was a blanket tossed carelessly over the back of it, and Castiel brought it to him, crouching in front of Sam and wrapping it around him, cocooning him snugly in it. It was almost preternaturally soft against Sam's skin, and very warm. 

He wondered if he was supposed to thank Castiel for it. He wondered if he was even allowed to speak.

Castiel stood and moved into the kitchen. Sam heard him rustling about for a few minutes, but didn't bother to look to see what he was working on. Delicious smells wafted over to him, and he stiffened, his breath quickening, deeply worried he'd do something wrong which would result in him going hungry for another day.

Castiel's legs came into view directly in front of him, and the chair was moved. Castiel sat in it, directly in front of Sam and quite close, his legs spread wide. He had a bowl in his hands, with a spoon leaning against the edge.

“You,” Castiel began, and a gentle finger touched the tip of Sam's nose, “don't use cutlery. You're a valued pet, and you may eat from mine, when permitted, or from a bowl on the floor. Understood?”

Sam didn't have the luxury of rebellion, though he itched to retort. _Pet, my ass._ His throat was aching, and his voice scratchy when he spoke. “Y-yes, _gospodin_.” Sam had nearly forgotten the word, remembering it only at the very last moment.

The spoon dipped into the bowl, the backside of it scraped against the edge, and it was held out towards Sam's mouth. Sam's left arm twitched reflexively, but he clutched his thigh, under the blanket. He glanced at the spoon before opening his mouth – some sort of tomato-based soup, with tiny pasta shells and vegetables.

Castiel held the spoon a few inches from his mouth, and waited. Sam flushed blotchily red with mortification, and made himself lean forwards, taking the spoonful of soup into his mouth. It annoyed him that it was so good. He wanted to hate it, but he leaned forward eagerly for every spoonful Castiel offered to him.

The bowl was empty far too soon for his liking, though he knew that if he ate too much, he'd just throw it right back up. Castiel set the bowl on the table, and reached for a small plate. On it seemed to be hand-torn chunks of bread, quite yellow. Where there was crust, it was shiny and golden brown. The pieces were dotted with smears of butter.

“This is _kolach_. Consider it a treat.” Castiel picked a piece up and offered it to him. Sam took it gingerly between his teeth, and chewed. It was rich, and just a little sweet, which was offset by the saltiness of the butter. Again, Sam hated that he liked it so much. This time Castiel alternated feeding pieces to Sam and popping them into his own mouth. When the plate was empty, he stood and returned to the kitchen.

When Castiel's legs returned, and he had sat back down in the chair, a large glass of milk was lowered into Sam's line of sight. Sam knew better than to hesitate to take it. He held it carefully with both hands, not trusting Castiel not to beat him senseless if he should happen to drop it accidentally.

He drank the milk as quickly as he could, but needed to pause before finishing the glass, feeling a little ill. A gentle hand touched his head, stroked through his hair. Castiel's voice was soft, when he spoke.

“Do not think that I do not realize that this is challenging for you. A different sort of life. I doubt you've ever had anyone whose happiness you put above your own, hmm?” Gentle fingertips stroked down Sam's cheek, and along the edge of his jaw.

Sam's mind was perfectly blank.

“You're already doing so much better today. I'm proud of you.”

Castiel's last phrase twisted something very uncomfortably, in Sam's heart. He made a conscious effort of will to shove it away, and focused instead on the fact that somehow Castiel equated Sam being too frightened to speak or move with being “good”.

Sam finished the rest of his milk without comment, and passed the glass back up to Castiel.

Castiel took it from him. “I appreciate your silence. Realize though, that should I ask you a question, you would do well to answer.”

“Yes, _g-gospodin_.” Sam's voice was a whisper.

“Now. Are you feeling a little better? You're probably very tired, but there's one thing you must learn, and do, before bed.”

Sam stiffened, but all Castiel did was lower something into his line of sight. It was a small, brown plastic bottle, whose label proclaimed it to be “Leather Honey”, and a small, soft cloth. Sam took them, not really understanding what they were supposed to be about.

Castiel reached down, and gently took Sam's right wrist. Sam managed not to yank it away from him. Castiel's thumb stroked over the cuff, which had dried, the thick leather molded snugly around Sam's bony wrist. “These are meant to be snug, but not quite _this_ snug, _solnishko_. One of your responsibilities will be to care for them. If they get wet, once they are dry, you'll use the cloth to rub the oil in, inside and out. It will soften and loosen them slightly. Keep them from chafing. Understood?”

Sam's mind whirled. Castiel expected him to _care_ for the hated leather cuffs and collar, the touch of which Sam could barely stand against his skin? That represented everything he'd had taken away from him?! When Sam heard the word 'understood', at the end of Castiel's speech, his “yes, _gospodin_ ,” was almost automatic. Castiel released his wrist, which Sam let fall.

Sam stared at the bottle and cloth, and could feel Castiel's eyes on him. He forced himself to move when he felt the cold anger begin to build – a menacing presence in front of and above him. He poured a little of the oil onto the cloth, and set the bottle aside. When he touched the cloth to the cuff on his right wrist, Castiel spoke.

“Good boy. Be sure to rub it in thoroughly, especially this time, the first time. Later applications will not require quite as much effort.” Castiel stood. “Come. You may sit beside the couch, or in front of the windows, until your task is complete.”

Sam watched from the corner of his eye as Castiel walked to the bookshelf, which held an impressive collection of vinyl. He selected one, removing it carefully from its sleeve, and placed it delicately on what Sam was certain was a high-end turntable. When the music started, it was classical, loud enough to pleasantly fill the room, but not so loud as to overwhelm. Castiel took a seat on the sofa and picked up his book.

Sam didn't trust his legs to have enough strength to carry him, so he crawled slowly behind the sofa, staying out of Castiel's line of sight as much as possible, and to the cushion in front of the expansive windows. The light level coming from them was a little painful on Sam's eyes, but it was the farthest away from Castiel that he was currently permitted to be.

Sam curled up on the cushion, taking his cloth and his oil and rubbing a little more of it into the cuff on his right wrist. The leather seemed almost thirsty for it, and an astonishing amount of it soaked right in. It darkened the cuff as it was applied, and once Sam had finished with the outside, leaving it satin-shimmery compared to the matte of his left, he began with the inside, slipping a cloth-covered finger between the leather and the skin of his wrist.

Sam tried very hard not to think, as he worked on conditioning the leather of his cuffs. His right wrist was followed by his left, and then his right, and then left ankle. He was surprised to find that the cuffs did actually loosen a little under his ministrations, and were substantially more comfortable.

Sam thought that his profound exhaustion might be helping him quite a bit with his task. It was hard to think, when he could barely keep his eyes open, and the monotony of the chore encouraged a sort of... blankness. Once he had finished with his left ankle, he realized that only left the collar. Sam swallowed hard against the tension of the tight leather against his throat.

 _Do it, just get it done and he'll let you sleep. Be good, and he won't hurt you._ Sam thought that the small voice in his head raised a couple of good points there. It was a little trickier to do his collar, as he couldn't see the colour and texture of the leather change, but he could feel the difference under his fingertips, and stifled his sigh of relief as some of the pressure lifted.

When he was pretty sure that his task was finished, he set the oil aside, and folded the cloth neatly, draping it over the top of the bottle. Sam let his eyes flicker shut, but Castiel spoke nearly immediately. Sam's eyes shot open again.

“Done? Let's see, then. Come here.”

Sam tried to shut down all of his higher mental functions as he crawled exhaustedly to where Castiel was seated on the couch. He knelt a small distance away from where Castiel had his legs up on a plush ottoman. He closed his eyes, gripped the tops of his thighs and tried to stay calm.

There was a soft rustle, and harsh fingers jammed themselves between Sam's collar and the skin of his neck, on the left-hand side. He was hauled roughly forwards, choking, and another hand pressed against his left cheek, twisting his head harshly to the right. Sam kept his eyes shut tight, breathing hard through his nose. He heard Castiel's thoughtful hum, and his collar and cheek were released. Sam coughed, and his left hand was grabbed tightly enough that the bones ground together. He didn't manage to keep him whimper to himself.

“Well done! Very nicely done.” Castiel let go of his hand, as well, which ached and throbbed. Sam lowered his head, cradling his left hand in his right. “Because you've been good, and did a passable job on your bonds, you may sleep on my bed. For now. I'll even let you choose how I put you down.” 

Sam had a momentary flare of terror and confusion at the term 'put down', thinking of sick dogs and horses with broken legs.

“Would you like a pill, or an injection, Sam?” Castiel stood, and helped Sam to his feet, mostly carrying Sam as they moved towards the bedroom, closing the door softly once they were inside.

Sam didn't know – how was he supposed to be able to pick? He just... he just wanted to not have to be in the situation he was trapped in. “I... I don't know...” Sam stammered out.

Castiel was silent until he helped Sam to sit on the edge of the bed. Castiel stood before him, and tilted Sam's face up with a gentle hand under his chin. He brushed Sam's hair back with the other hand. His smile was almost kind.

“Well, perhaps look at it this way. Would you like to be conscious, the first time I use you?”

Sam's heart stopped. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“While I sometimes enjoy a little fight from my partners, I'm not desiring that right now, nor do I feel like binding you immobile. Can you be calm and obedient, while I'm using you?” Castiel's head tilted slightly to the side, and the small smile slid into a smirk.

 _No, no, no no nonononono..._ Sam thought his heart was going to beat out of his chest. He pulled his chin out of Castiel's grip, and lunged up off the bed, towards the door. He made it all of three steps before his legs collapsed. He tried to sort himself out, getting his legs under him and crawling for the door. He heard a soft sigh from behind him.

“You can stop, right now. Touching that door is a ticket back to your cell in the basement.”

Sam's hand had been inches from the doorknob. He froze, harsh breathing stopping in his chest. Slowly, ever so slowly, he retracted his hand, until it was curled into a fist, pressed against his chest.

“Come here, _solnishko._ ” The calmness of Castiel's voice scared Sam more than anything else. He closed his eyes tight, praying that he hadn't just made a terrible mistake. He turned, and saw Castiel working on something on the top of the long dresser. Castiel carefully inserted a needle into a vial of... something, drawing clear liquid into a syringe. He tapped the bubbles out, and withdrew the needle, setting it aside. Sam saw him reach for another vial, another needle. He couldn't stop his whine.

Castiel spared him a glance. “Sit on the edge of the bed.”

Sam's thoughts devolved into static. He crawled slowly to the bed, and pulled himself up to sit on it. He couldn't stop the shaking, the tremors that ran through him. He closed his eyes tight, trying to convince himself that whatever Castiel was going to do, it couldn't possibly be as bad as what would happen in the cell.

Sam was envisioning himself screaming through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth when something cold touched his shoulder. He jolted, but a heavy hand landed just above the cooling wet spot, stilling him. The needle was a slight pinch, and whatever was in the injection burned a little as Castiel pushed it in.

“Lay down. On your stomach. Cheek on the pillow. Quickly.” Castiel's words were clipped.

Sam moved to comply, shifting to the middle of the bed and lying down as instructed. His body seemed so heavy, so exhausted, that it was a bit of a battle getting there, but he managed.

A few minutes later the bed moved, near Sam's feet. He felt hands on his ankles, above the cuffs, moving his legs, spreading them wide. Sam whimpered, feeling incredibly vulnerable, and tried to move his legs closer together.

They didn't move. He tried his arms, which he had tucked under the pillow that his head was resting on, and got the same result. He tried to lift his head... nothing. He whined in fear, his eyes filling with tears.

“Normally, I like to think that I'm a very thoughtful lover.” Castiel's voice was soft, and a warm palm slid down the back of Sam's left thigh. “My partner's pleasure is important to me. Possibly more than my own. And if you hadn't shown such a serious lack of judgment just now, the contents of that needle would've been entirely different.”

Castiel's hand slid back up the inside of Sam's thigh, all the way up, coming to rest against Sam's perineum, thumb along the crack of his ass, brushing over his hole.

Sam briefly considered begging, but thought Castiel wouldn't want to hear it, and it wouldn't stop him from doing exactly what he wanted, anyway. He heard a soft click, and wet coolness slid down the crack of his ass. He choked out a sob, and decided to try anyway. “Pl-please, please d-don't...”

“Do you want your gag back?” Castiel asked, as his thumb slid in the slickness and pressed at Sam's ass. Sam clamped his mouth shut. The thumb pressed a little more insistently, slipping inside just a little, with almost no resistance.

“I'm not entirely certain why you're making such a fuss. Just pretend I'm one of the johns you take to your alley.” The thumb withdrew, and was replaced by two slick fingers.

 _My choice. MY choice. The johns are_ my _choice. This... this is rape._ Sam tried to bite back his sobs, as two fingers became three.

“You moan so pretty for _them_. Won't you do the same for me, _solnishko_?” The fingers withdrew, and Sam felt movement on the bed, between his legs. Sam wished he could turn his head, hide his face and his tears and his pain in the pillow, so Castiel couldn't see it.

Castiel slid into him, and there wasn't any pain at all. Castiel was breathing a little hard above him, his hands pressed into the bed on either side of Sam's ribs.

“Right... right about now would normally be when I would scold you for not arching your back, and presenting that perfect ass to me at the ideal angle. The one you use when your face is up against the brick wall.” Castiel started to move, fucking into Sam with long, hard thrusts, Sam utterly, unwillingly pliant beneath him.

Sam thought that if it were possible to die from mortification, he'd happily do so on the spot. But... but just because he was a hustler, that didn't give Castiel the right...

Castiel's thrusts slid from hard into vicious, pounding mercilessly into Sam, his breath ragged and harsh. “We'll have to see... how much tighter you are, later... without... the muscle relaxants.” Castiel groaned and came, and Sam felt the hot flood of his come.

Sam's heart stuttered. Bare... Castiel had fucked him bare. Sam had never, not once ever let anyone fuck him bare. The last john who'd tried ended up with a broken nose.

Castiel withdrew, and Sam felt the come ooze out of him. Castiel groaned again, and his hands clenched hard on Sam's ass cheeks.

“Well... isn't that lovely. First time being bred, and it's by me.” Sam could hear the smirk in Castiel's voice.

Fury surged within Sam, and it tangled wretchedly with his terror and violation. He wanted to scream, to run, to choke the life from Castiel, to put a bullet into him and every one of his henchmen. He laid utterly still and silent.

More movement on the bed behind him, and Sam saw, through blurry eyes, Castiel move to the dresser. When he returned, the second needle was in his hand.

It wasn't as though Sam could stop him. Castiel moved Sam's limp arm to gain access to his shoulder. There was the coolness of the alcohol and another injection. It didn't take long for this one to make him woozy and dizzy, and to feel unconsciousness pulling at him.

Sam's last thought was that next time, he wanted the second shot first.


	4. Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out with personal apologies to my wonderful, dear friend, co-conspirator and beta, [SharpieStealr8200](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpieStealr8200/pseuds/SharpieStealr8200). And also to my Grand High Inquisitor, [cr0wgrrl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cr0wgrrl/pseuds/cr0wgrrl), whom I'm pretty sure I broke with one of the ideas for this chapter.
> 
> Cheers.

When Sam woke, his heart seemed to be trying to beat its way out of his chest, and he was almost afraid to try to move. His eyes flickered open, and although he couldn't _see_ Castiel in the small section of room which was visible to him, he knew better than to think he was alone.

He was still in the position that Castiel had ra... _no, not rape. Don't think of it as rape. Don't. He's... he's just a john. Just a john._

Sam knew he couldn't bear the thought of being raped whenever it struck Castiel's fancy. And so his mantra of _just a john_ was born. Perhaps he'd even convince himself, someday.

Sam tried to move, and his body responded this time, though sluggishly. He pushed himself up, unsticking his cheek from Castiel's pillow, and managed to get himself into a sitting position. He tried really, really hard not to focus on the slick stickiness between his ass cheeks.

Castiel entered the room from the ensuite, a towel wrapped around his waist, watching Sam with neutral eyes. “Good morning.”

Sam really had no idea what time of day it might be, There was light around the edges of the curtains, but he had no idea how long he'd been out for. Had Castiel slept a night beside him, unconscious and spread wide on the bed??

“... _solnishko?_ ” The warning in Castiel's voice was clear.

Sam tried to speak, and it turned into a cough. He forced his words out. “G-good morning, _gospodin_.”

“Better. Come, shower, get ready for your day. You have a rather big one ahead of you.” Castiel smiled and held out a hand.

It took Sam everything he had not to turn and bolt. He swung his legs off the edge of the bed, and stood shakily. He tottered towards Castiel, not entirely certain he wasn't going to fall, until he was close enough to take his hand. Castiel's hand was warm in his, and he squeezed Sam's gently.

Castiel allowed him to get ready on his own, leaving Sam alone, for the most part, in the bathroom. Sam showered at length, scrubbing over and over between his ass cheeks, until Castiel frowned at him, and he stopped. It hadn't been helping him feel any cleaner, anyway. He shaved and brushed his teeth, feeling much better for it. He'd never been one to grow out his facial hair, he'd always found it itchy and uncomfortable.

When he was finished, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to be doing. He edged his way out of the bathroom, and saw Castiel dressing in the large walk-in closet. He was straightening a dark blue tie, over a black dress shirt and pants.

“Come. We have an appointment, outside of the building today. Which means you'll be needing some clothes. Don't get used to them.” Castiel smirked, and beckoned Sam towards him. Sam watched with wary eyes as Castiel opened a drawer and pulled out a simple pair of white drawstring pants, and a matching v-neck tunic.

Sam was shocked when Castiel turned and crouched before him, gently lifting Sam's right foot, and slipping it into the pants. He did the same with Sam's left, and pulled the loose pants up Sam's legs, tying the drawstring in a neat bow.

Sam stood very still and silent as Castiel did this, and then helped him into the shapeless shirt.

“Good! You're all ready.” Castiel smiled fondly at Sam, and Sam felt that awful twinge in his gut again - the one that he wasn't ready to look at too closely. Castiel picked up a deep brown leather bag, which had been sitting on the edge of the dresser.

Hand clasped in his, Castiel led Sam from the suite, and down the hall to the elevator. Two guards who had been posted at the door followed them, and joined them inside. Sam couldn't stop his soft whimper when he saw that one of them was Boris. He moved just a little closer to Castiel, and clutched his hand a little more tightly. Castiel chuckled.

The elevator stopped on the floor above the level that Sam's cell was on. A plain cement hallway with intermittent doors along it led eventually to a spacious garage, which contained two black SUVs, a limousine, and what looked like the van that Sam had been transported in.

Sam tried to fight down his fear, tried to keep a level head as Castiel led him to the limousine. A sharply dressed driver opened the door, and Castiel ushered Sam inside. The long, curved bench looked wonderfully comfortable, and Sam knew, he just _knew_... Sam sank to his knees on the plushly carpeted floor.

“Good boy!!” The approval in Castiel's voice felt like... like sunshine. Like safety. A soft hand stroked through Sam's hair, and he let his eyes close. The door closed with a soft, heavy _thunk_ , and the limousine began to move shortly after. There was a clinking of glassware, and soft sounds of something being poured.

“Sam?” Sam opened his eyes, and directly in front of his face was a glass of water, in one of Castiel's hands, and another small, unmarked pill in the other.

Some small part of Sam's brain had been hoping that his chance to escape was going to present itself, away from the compound, the guards and locked doors. He stared at the small pill, unmoving, desperately not wanting it. He decided to try begging.

“P-please, _gospodin_. I... I'll be good. I don't... I don't need...” Sam's voice was small and halting.

Castiel frowned at him, and the warmth from earlier vanished in a blast of arctic disapproval. Sam's mouth snapped shut. Castiel sighed, set the glass and the pill aside, and reached for the bag he'd brought.

Sam didn't have any way of knowing what was in there, and his heart stopped when Castiel's hand emerged from it with a matte black handgun, which he held loosely, not really pointing it directly at Sam. Sam felt like a deer in the headlights, his eyes fixed on the gun.

“ _Solnishko._ ” Castiel was still frowning, and rubbed his forehead with his other hand. He sighed again, and lifted the gun, pressing the muzzle against Sam's right temple. The safety clicked off.

Sam's breath stopped in his chest. His eyes snapped to Castiel's. Castiel looked... annoyed. Irritated. Exasperated.

“Take the pill.” Castiel's voice was soft. The metal of the gun was cold, against Sam's skin.

Sam reached for it with an absolute minimum of movement. He put the pill in his mouth, and swallowed it down with a mouthful of the water. Castiel took the glass from him, setting it aside, the gun not leaving Sam's head for even a moment.

Sam trembled as Castiel gave him a hard look. After another long moment, Sam barely daring to breathe, much less move, Castiel spoke.

“I cannot begin to fathom why you seem to be of the impression that if I offer you something, it is _optional_.” Castiel's mouth was a hard line.

“Sorry, I'm sorry, I...” Sam whispered, the words spilling out.

“ _Shut_. _Up_.” Each word punctuated with a hard tap of the gun against Sam's head. Sam flinched with each impact, closing his eyes and mouth tight, terrified that the gun would go off.

Castiel murmured a couple of words that weren't in English. Another long pause, and finally, _finally_ the ring of cold steel left the side of Sam's head. “One needs the patience of a saint to deal with you, _solnishko_.”

Sam caught his apologies behind his teeth.

“Don't speak. Don't speak unless asked a direct question, or otherwise given explicit permission. Understood?”

“Yes, _gospodin_.” Sam could barely hear his own voice, and was amazed that Castiel could.

“Do you want your gag? Will it help you to keep yourself out of trouble?”

Sam was sickened at the part of him that actually thought it might. “N-no, th-thank you, _gospodin_.”

“There's my good boy.” Sam felt himself unclench a little as the iciness in Castiel's voice faded.

Castiel was silent until the limousine rolled to a stop. And, of course, Sam was, too.

 

*

 

When the limousine stopped, and Castiel helped him from it, they seemed to be behind some sort of large building, of dull yellow bricks and annoyingly regular, small windows. A door was opened for them, and the smells of some sort of medical clinic engulfed Sam's somewhat fragmented senses.

Sam almost felt as though he were floating above himself, watching himself be led, unprotesting, through the halls and up an elevator. Castiel had a firm grip on his upper arm, which Sam was a little grateful for, lest he float away entirely. He thought it was kind of neat, that his body remembered how to walk even without him inside it.

They reached a small, brightly-lit room, and Castiel set his leather bag on a small counter, before stripping off Sam's meager clothes. He forced Sam to sit in some sort of padded, adjustable... table, chair, bench... thing... and Sam simply watched as he was strapped into it, rendered almost completely incapable of movement.

Castiel took a seat in a chair near some sort of large piece of machinery. Sam didn't have the faintest idea what it might be. There was some writing on it, and some lights and some sort of... wand-thing. Sam tried to reach to touch it, before remembering he was strapped down.

The door opened, and a man stepped through it. He was tall, much taller than Castiel, who stood to greet him, smiling warmly and clasping hands. He was wearing tight jeans and a white t-shirt, and his arms were covered in a dizzying array of tattoos.

Sam closed his eyes, because the colours and shapes were making him feel a little unwell. When he opened them again, the man was sitting quite close to him, on his left, and was assembling... something. It wasn't until the man pulled out a small jar of black ink that Sam realized what was going to happen, and stiffened against his restraints.

He must have made some sort of noise, because Castiel stood, moving to his other side, and ran a soothing hand through his hair. “Hush now, dear one. In the future, you'll be given choices about the ink you'll wear, but this one is non-negotiable. It'll help you be returned to me, should you stray or become lost.”

Sam stared up at Castiel with wide, fearful eyes. Something cold and wet brushed against Sam's skin, near his left hip, wrapping a little around his side, low on his abdomen.

Every muscle in Sam's body locked taut when the soft buzzing started up. This time he heard his own whine, before a gentle fingertip pressed against his mouth.

“Be still, _solnishko_ ,” Castiel warned, a second fingertip touching Sam's lips.

It hurt, when the needle touched Sam's skin, but it hurt more somewhere inside... Sam wasn't entirely sure where. He closed his eyes and his tears fell, sliding down his temples and into his hair. He didn't dare relax, didn't dare move. The weird floatiness seemed to have evaporated in the face of his fear.

Sam breathed shallowly through his nose as the man worked on him. He could smell the cologne from Castiel's wrist, closer and warmer than the awful alcohol smell. Castiel and the man conversed occasionally, softly, as the man worked. It wasn't English.

Sam heard the snap of the latex gloves before he registered that the pain and the buzzing had stopped. Castiel had moved to his other side, and was nodding and patting the man on the shoulder. Both of them were looking at Sam's hip, and it drew his eyes down, as well.

Under a clear piece of what looked like cling wrap, taped securely in place, there were numbers, roughly three quarters of an inch high, neatly and crisply drawn, the ink stark against his pale skin.

_759-130-482_

Sam stared at them, absolutely baffled.

The man stood, and Castiel gave him a brief hug, before he packed up his gear and took his leave. Sam sagged back against the surface he was bound to, privately thankful that it hadn't been worse, that it... whatever it was... wasn't anywhere that would be readily visible.

Castiel moved back to Sam's side, and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead before returning to his chair.

Sam was hopelessly confused. Surely, they had to be done, right? Why hadn't Castiel released him, why weren't they on the way back to Castiel's suite? Sam was itching to ask, but had no desire to be gagged, or punished, or... or worse. Sam swallowed hard.

It didn't take long before the door opened again, and two young women entered, both dressed in hospital scrub-type outfits. Castiel greeted them, and they had a short discussion, before some sort of agreement seemed to have been reached.

Sam's heart rate ratcheted up when one of them turned on the large machine, and it started to hum softly. Sam looked to Castiel for some sort of reassurance, but Castiel had taken out his phone, and was doing something on it.

Cool, latex-covered fingers gripped his jaw, firmly but not harshly, and turned his head. The wand came into view near Sam's left eye, and he fought panic as it gently touched high on his left cheekbone. There was a painful zap, and the smell of burnt hair filled Sam's nostrils. One of the girls held Sam's head still, as the other moved the wand methodically, zapping Sam's face, along his jawline, under his chin and a little down his neck, above his collar.

It _hurt_ , and brought tears to Sam's eyes. The skin the girl had zapped was hot and throbbing.

After they finished with his face, one of his arms was unbound, and rebound above his head. He flushed red as one of the girls dry-shaved his underarm, and the one with the wand began the awful, painful treatment on it.

The second underarm wasn't any more pleasant than the first.

When they were finished, Sam thanked whatever gods existed that they were finally done. Until they attached stirrups to the table, and forced Sam's legs into them, so that he was spread wide and completely vulnerable.

If he'd thought the treatment hurt on his face... it was _agony_ on his groin and sac. Castiel ended up having to stand near Sam's head, a hand clamped over Sam's mouth as he sobbed. Sam stiffened again when the girls spread his cheeks, and clawed at the armrests when they did the crack of his ass.

When they finally finished, and turned the accursed machine off, Sam wasn't sure he'd ever hurt that much, in that many places. It took a long time for his sobs to die down into hitching hiccups, while Castiel ran a soothing hand through his hair.

“Good boy. There are creams, sprays, to help soothe the skin, but the treatment's more effective the longer the skin is irritated. I'm sure you'd like it to be as effective as possible, hmm, so that we don't have to come back here as often?”

Sam looked within himself for that white-hot fury, but couldn't seem to find it. “Y-yes, _gospodin_.” Sam's voice was wrecked, his throat sore and dry from crying.

The young women left. Castiel undid the straps holding Sam to the table, and helped him back into the loose-fitting pants. Where the fabric touched the areas that had been treated the pain seemed to double, and Sam couldn't stop his groan. Castiel was careful, mindful of the cling wrap and tape over Sam's new tattoo.

“... numbers...” Sam was caught up in his musings about the tattoo, and his mouth got away from him for a second, before he could clamp it shut. He froze, fearing Castiel's reprisal.

“Yes, numbers. Your slave registration number. As I said, to help you be returned to me, should you happen to stray.” Castiel shot him a warning look, which Sam read as 'now keep your fucking mouth shut.'

 _Slave... slave??_ Sam frowned. “M'not...”

Sam didn't even see it coming, and Castiel's backhand was vicious enough to knock Sam completely off his feet. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, legs crumpling underneath him, and the aching pain on the right side of his face flared into agony. He crunched over on the floor, dazed and panting, and watched the blood dripping from his open mouth fall to stain the white tiles.

A moment later, Sam's head was wrenched back with a cruel grip in his hair, and the rubber cock from his muzzle was slammed into his panting mouth, the leather tight and harsh against his chin. Sam's panting breaths shifted abruptly to his nose as Castiel wrenched the straps of the muzzle tight, muttering under his breath.

Sam wouldn't have thought it, but the combination of rubber and blood was even worse than just the rubber.

Castiel stood, glaring down at Sam, who shifted to kneel on the floor. “I should have known better than to think that your mouth wouldn't get you into trouble, _solnishko_.” Castiel reached for his phone, pressing a few buttons on it, and saying a few brief words in Russian, before pausing. Sam risked a glance upwards, and saw that Castiel was looking at him in a thoughtful, appraising sort of way. Without looking at his phone, Castiel turned it off and pocketed it.

Castiel crouched before Sam, so they were more or less at the same level. “That call, the one I didn't quite complete, was for the men to come with the van, to take you to your cell.”

Sam's blood ran cold.

“Because I have had _enough_ of your _shit_ , _solnishko_.” Castiel spat the words at Sam, and Sam couldn't help but flinch, lowering his head.

There was a long pause, while Sam hyperventilated through his nose, his eyes closed tight. _No, no, please, no..._

“I have no compunctions about completing that call. Letting the guards have you. You're very rapidly becoming more trouble than you're worth.”

The terror of facing life in the cell swamped Sam, and his vision greyed out.

“Now.” Castiel stood, brushing off his hands. “As it was your mouth that got you into this mess, I'll give you one opportunity to use it to get yourself out of it. Unless you'd rather head directly to your cell.”

Sam tried to push down his choking fear to understand what Castiel was saying, what he was offering. He shook his head, very slightly, no. _Anything but the cell. Please._

“You're going to convince me to keep you, hmm?” A fingertip on the muzzle, under Sam's chin, tilted his head up, forcing Sam to look at him. Sam could barely see him through his tears, and had to force himself to nod. 

“All right, then.” Castiel's fingers were swift on the buckles of Sam's muzzle, pulling the rubber away from his mouth. He set it aside, and returned to stand directly in front of Sam. “Show me you're worth the trouble.”

Sam was still dazed, hurt, terrified and exhausted. All he could taste was blood from the cut on the inside of his cheek, overlaid with the noxious rubber from his muzzle. He was weak, underfed and disoriented from the drugs, and all that was standing between him and life in a concrete cell was his ability to give a blowjob, here and now, to the man that was responsible for all of it.

And with all his heart, Sam wished that he could carve out the tiny, tiny part of him that wanted Castiel's approval, the warmth of his smile, his gentle touches. He tried to convince himself that it was simply a matter of wanting safety, the promise of not being hurt, but he wasn't entirely successful.

 _Just a john_. Sam reached shaking hands to Castiel's belt, fumbling it open. He popped Castiel's button, and lowered his zipper. Castiel wasn't even hard as Sam eased him out of his snug boxer briefs.

 _Just a john_. At least he smelled a lot better than Sam's landlord. Sam took Castiel into his mouth, licking and sucking, feeling Castiel harden.

 _Just a john_. If Sam tried hard enough, he could pretend that he was back in his alley, dirty pavement under his knees rather than smooth tile. Castiel's utter silence was throwing him off, though... despite how hard he was in Sam's mouth now, there weren't the usual comments from above him about what a pretty whore he was, what a good cocksucker. No 'Hey, Alan, if you've got forty bucks, you've _gotta_ try this kid's mouth...'

 _Just a john_. Sam had expected Castiel's hands in his hair, for Castiel to shove himself into Sam's throat, to _make_ him take it, but Castiel let him do it himself. One of the times Sam took his entire length in, he felt Castiel pulse, and heard the softest grunt from above him. Sam swallowed it all down, waiting until he was certain Castiel was done before pulling off slowly.

Sam leaned back on his heels, and dropped his head and his gaze, waiting for the axe to fall. He heard the soft sound of Castiel's zipper.

“You know, for someone who really ought to be a professional by now, there's certainly room for improvement.” Sam stiffened, but Castiel didn't seem angry – it seemed more of an observation than a criticism. Sam flushed regardless, humiliation flooding him, the blood flow to his face making the skin throb... particularly the cheek Castiel had hit.

Castiel's fingers gripped his chin and lifted his head... he had the muzzle in his other hand. This time Sam accepted it without complaint, opening his mouth obediently, privately admitting that it might actually help to keep him out of further trouble.

Castiel was a little more gentle with the straps and buckles this time around. His voice was soft when he spoke. “Now. I know the tattoo and the treatment hurt, and you likely want to go back to the suite.”

Sam was still, not sure if Castiel actually wanted an answer. Castiel's hand was gentle on the crown of Sam's head.

“With that in mind, I'm going to give you a choice. There's one more thing I'd very much like to have done today. It also might hurt a little...”

 _A little?!_ Sam would've barked out a laugh, if he hadn't been gagged.

“... so I'll understand if you're not feeling up to it.” The gentle hand moved to Sam's chin, lifting his head and forcing Sam to look at him. “But it would make me very _happy_ if you would agree to it.”

The obvious emphasis on _happy_ made Sam's heart skip a beat. No, he wasn't at all ready for any more pain, but even as disoriented as he was, he knew he needed to keep Castiel pleased. He also knew he was a hair's breadth away from being turfed into the cell again, and the logical part of his mind urged him to concede, to give himself just a little wiggle room.

The part of him most connected to his heated, throbbing skin, and the blood in his mouth, urged him to slam a fist into Castiel's crotch and run like hell before he could get to the gun in the leather bag.

Self-preservation won. Again. Sam made himself nod, knowing full well that 'a little' might hurt a whole fucking lot.

Castiel's face split into a wide grin, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. Sam basked in his approval, daring to relax just a little, even if he knew it probably wouldn't last. Castiel snagged his phone from his pocket, and made a quick, quiet call.

Sam stayed kneeling where he had serviced Castiel, watching as Castiel moved back to the table and examined its controls. He pressed a button, and the table moved smoothly until it was flat.

Castiel turned to him. “Come.” He held out a hand.

Sam climbed shakily to his feet, moved to Castiel and took his hand, holding it perhaps a little tighter than he might normally have.

“On to the table, _solnishko_ , on your stomach.”

Sam climbed onto the table and laid down, his breathing a little fast and shallow. Castiel took his left wrist, and guided it to a handhold under the table. He lowered his right himself, finding a matching one, and gripped them tightly, glad to have something solid to hold on to.

There was a soft rustling of fabric, as Castiel moved back to his chair and sat.

Sam's hands were aching from his white-knuckle grip by the time the door opened again.

Two men, this time. One was the one who had done Sam's new tattoo, and seeing him made Sam close his eyes tightly against whatever was coming.

There were soft voices in Russian, and what Sam knew to be Castiel's hand, warm and comforting against his lower back. The snap of latex, and gloved fingers touching his back. Castiel's hand moved, and his fingers sketched out a shape: a long, graceful curve, starting on his shoulderblade and moving downwards to just above where his hand had rested, following the narrowing of his waist.

Another agreement was reached, and after a soft pat on Sam's bottom, Castiel moved away. Sam could feel the two men on either side of him, more gloved hands against his skin, cool alcohol, and something soft, touching in small, precise dots. It was clear that whatever it was that they were doing, they were taking their time in making sure it was perfect.

One of the men pinched the skin, high on Sam's right shoulderblade, and Sam jolted as the needle pierced it.

“Be still,” Castiel warned from his chair.

The man on the other side pinched his left, as Sam felt the needle move on the right, and cool metal left behind, after the needle was removed.

_Piercings?! What... what the hell even..._

Sam froze as two things added up simultaneously in his head. The first was a girl he had seen once, at a club. Her top had been backless, and she had twin rows of small rings down her back, like a corset, with pretty blue ribbons woven between them. The second was the curve that Castiel had drawn on his back, only just a moment ago.

Another pinch on his right, and the needle moving on his left.

It took a moment before Sam was able to pull in a shuddering breath, through his nose. It took him another moment to realize that he was biting down on the rubber cock in his mouth hard enough that his jaw was aching.

_It's just piercings. When I'm away from this, I can just have them removed. Can have the tattoo removed, too. It's... it's no big deal. It's fine._

Sam couldn't help his flinch every time there was a new pinch, a new needle.

And there were a _lot_ of needles.

Sam was trembling, sheened with sweat and a little dazed, before the needles finally stopped. If Sam played connect the dots, there were twin lines of pain all the way down his back. In long, graceful curves.

A warm hand low on his back, well below the piercings, and Castiel's voice, his tone clearly appreciative. It took Sam a moment to realize that at some point the two men had gone, and at some point, Castiel had switched to English.

“... beautiful, and so good for me. Come, we're done for the day.”

It took Castiel prying Sam's hands off the handholds, to make him let go. He helped Sam to stand up, propping him up against the table. Castiel helped Sam back into his shirt - lifting his arms felt bizarre, as the newly pierced skin moved, and the light cotton against the new rings even more so.

Sam had never had a piercing before, not even his ears. He'd never wanted one.

Castiel took his hand, and Sam followed him back to the limo. He sat on his rump, on the floor, as Castiel took a seat. Sam let his head drop, and closed his eyes, too tired and too hurt to worry too much about kneeling.

There was a soft tug on the front of Sam's muzzle. Castiel had looped a finger through a ring Sam hadn't even noticed was there. He had spread his legs and leaned forward, and was pulling Sam in between them. Sam shuffled between Castiel's spread thighs, facing him, and Castiel guided Sam's head so that his cheek was resting against the soft fabric covering Castiel's inner thigh. Sam's eyes flickered shut as Castiel's hand gently stroked over his hair and the straps of his muzzle.

“Rest, dear one.” Castiel's voice was kinder than Sam had ever heard it.

Sam did.


	5. Stroll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys. Thank you.

When Sam woke, he was curled on his side, in a loose fetal position, in an astonishingly comfortable bed. His gag had been removed, and when he shifted a little and heard no clinking of chain, he assumed he wasn't chained to the bed, either.

“ _Solnishko._ ” Castiel's voice was gentle, from somewhere above him. Sam's eyes flickered open, and darted upwards, to where Castiel was standing beside the bed. “Come. Up. You must be very hungry.”

Castiel helped Sam to sit, and then to stand, guiding him from the room with an arm around Sam's waist, and Sam pressed snugly against his side. Sam still had the loose top on, but the drawstring pants had been taken off of him, and he was naked from the waist down. Castiel led Sam to his cushion beside the table, and eased Sam down to kneel on it.

Sam managed to fight down the surge of resentment that he wasn't allowed to sit at the table, to dine like a normal human being. He kept his mouth firmly shut, his head and eyes lowered, his gaze fixed on the edge of his cushion as Castiel rustled about in the kitchen. It didn't take very long for delicious smells to reach Sam's nose.

A few moments later, Castiel walked to Sam's side, and set the round metal dog food bowl on the floor in front of him. Sam stared blankly at it – vegetables, rice, and what looked like cubed chicken breast. Castiel took his chair, and there was a long pause.

“Eat.” Sam heard the threat of that icy anger in Castiel's voice. He reached for the bowl with both hands, and hadn't even touched it when there was a hard blow across the back of his head. Sam froze, panicking, not certain what he'd done wrong.

Sam saw Castiel's legs move in his peripherals, as Castiel turned to him. There was a viciously hard grip on the back of his neck, which made him whimper. Castiel forced him down, and Sam pressed his hands against the floor, to prevent him from landing face-first in his bowl. Castiel kept pushing him downwards, until his face was inches above the food.

“You eat from a bowl _on the floor._ You don't touch it with anything but your mouth. Am I clear?”

“Yes, _gospodin_ ,” Sam whispered, staring at a piece of broccoli. He'd always hated broccoli.

The grip left the back of Sam's neck, and Castiel turned back to the table. It took Sam a long time, and a great deal of swallowing of pride, to lower his face those last few inches.

The first thing that struck Sam was that the food was astonishingly bland. There didn't seem to be any sort of seasoning at all on it. Whatever it was that smelled so appetizing must've been on Castiel's plate, because it certainly wasn't in Sam's bowl.

Knowing he needed the nourishment, Sam ate his way through what he was given. It was difficult, and messy, and utterly humiliating. Sam gave up after he spent five minutes chasing what was left of the rice across the bottom of the bowl with his tongue. He sat back up a little, and knew he had rice stuck to his chin and nose, but he didn't dare lift his hands off the floor.

“Good boy. Come here.” Sam was blushing fuchsia as he edged towards Castiel's chair, on his knees. Castiel's fingers under his chin lifted his face, and Castiel cleaned the mess from Sam's skin with a heavy napkin. The moment Castiel let him go, he dropped his head and his gaze, wondering if it were possible to actually die of humiliation.

A glass of water was lowered into Sam's line of sight. Sam drank it without hesitation or complaint.

“You're really being much better today. I'm proud of you. Go sit on your cushion, in front of the window, facing it.” Castiel took the glass back from Sam.

Sam wasn't sure if he was allowed to stand, to walk – so he took the safe route, and crawled to his spot before the expansive windows. He sat cross-legged, arms limp in his lap, staring out at the beach and the ocean. He squinted down the beach to his right, and saw very far away what he thought might have been a girl, walking along the narrow strip of damp sand, near the water in the late afternoon sun.

This time Sam nearly choked on the surge of jealousy he felt. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes. He jolted as he heard movement right behind him.

“Lift your arms, dear one.” Castiel's hands grasped the hem of Sam's shirt.

Sam kept his eyes on the girl, who had dwindled into a dark smudge. “N-no.”

“I'm sorry?” Castiel stilled.

“N-no. I don't... you can't k-keep me here. You can't d-do this.” Sam stared resolutely at the spot where the girl had vanished.

Castiel's warm hands wrapped around Sam's hips. The touch was gentle. “You're sure this is what you want, hmm? You don't wish to stay with me?”

The fact that Castiel's voice was perfectly calm scared Sam witless. “L-let me go.” Sam had to force the words out of his tight throat.

“All right.” There was a rustle of cloth as Castiel stood. He walked away, and was only gone for a few minutes before he returned, setting something on the floor near Sam's right knee. Sam's eyes widened when he realized that it was his clothes and shoes from the night he'd been taken.

“Go.” Sam almost thought he heard mirth in Castiel's voice. “I won't stop you. I'll even give you twelve hours, before I come after you.”

_Twelve hours. I can put a couple of states, between me and this place in twelve hours._

Sam shucked the white tunic, tossing it aside and swapping it for the Hello Kitty shirt. The sensation of the snug cotton against the rings in his back made him gasp. He heard Castiel chuckle, from somewhere behind him. He pulled on the snug little boxer briefs, which made the skin that'd been treated ache and throb. The jeans and runners completed his outfit – his keys were even still in his pocket, though his wallet was gone. He stood on shaky legs, turning nervously back to Castiel, who was lounging on the couch, with a snifter of amber liquid in one hand.

“All ready? Good.” Castiel's smile was pleasant and neutral. He used his keys to remove Sam's cuffs and collar – Sam felt strangely naked, exposed without them. “I'll escort you out. Come.”

Castiel walked to the door, and Sam followed nervously. The guards at the door followed them down the hall and into the elevator. It stopped on the second floor, and Castiel murmured to the guards, who stayed where they were as Castiel led the way down the hallway.

Castiel and Sam passed two more pairs of guards before finally reaching an exit. Castiel opened it, and gestured Sam through. Sam hurried past him, and Castiel murmured, “I'll see you soon, _solnishko_.”

 _My ass you will._ Sam hurried away from the source of so much misery.

 

*

 

It took Sam some time to get his bearings, and ate up more of his precious hours as he walked back to his neighbourhood. He knew it probably wasn't smart, but he had a little money stashed in his apartment, which might be enough to get him the fuck out of here.

The sun was setting, and Sam was exhausted by the time he finally got there. He climbed the stairs to his unit, needing to pause a couple of times to catch his breath. He walked down the grungy hall, and slid the key into the lock... and it didn't turn.

Sam frowned down at it. It was very definitely his key, and very definitely his apartment, but...

The door opened, and a young woman stood in the entryway to Sam's apartment. “Can I help you?”

Only the rooms behind her weren't Sam's apartment. They were tastefully decorated, and filled with someone else's things.

Sam swallowed hard. _You motherfucker._ “No. No, I'm sorry, I had the wrong floor. Have a good day.” Sam forced a smile onto his face, and turned and walked away, grinding his teeth.

The rage was slowly supplanted by terror when he realized that he had absolutely nothing but the clothes on his back. He hesitated just outside of his apartment building, really having absolutely no idea where to go or what do do.

 _”Sunny Joey,”_ his subconscious whispered to him.

Sam's heart skipped a beat. Sunny Joey was a pimp, one who'd been courting Sam for months, who desperately wanted Sam in his stable. There was no way that Sunny Joey was affiliated with Castiel. He was Mexican, to start with, and never once had a good word to say about the Russians. Surely Sunny Joey would shelter him, while Sam figured out a more permanent solution.

It took more of Sam's precious hours to find him, and cost Sam a quick, rough fuck, in exchange for a night's rent for a small, dirty room. The bed was disgusting, and Sam settled for sleeping propped up in a corner, his ass aching dully, under the cleanest of the blankets.

Sam wasn't convinced he'd really, actually fallen asleep when there was a colossal bang, and the door flew open. Two black-clad men rushed in, yelling, “Police!! Put your hands up!”

Sam lifted shaking hands, showing he had no intention of fighting them. One of them hauled him to his feet, while his partner kept a gun trained on Sam. Sam let himself be handcuffed and hustled out of the room. He was forced into the back of a wagon with several of Joey's other boys, in various states of undress. He got some strange looks, as the boys recognized him, but knew he wasn't one of them.

It was short trip to the police station, where they were all patted down for weapons and locked into a holding cell, with long benches along the sides.

Sam really wasn't sure if this was going to be good or bad for him... he wouldn't put it past Castiel to have cops on his payroll. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed, and the more Sam's fear ratcheted up.

“All right, everyone up, back against the wall.” Two cops entered the cell, forcing all of the boys up and into a rough line. Sam tried not to hyperventilate. A man in a sharp suit came into the cell, with a badge hanging off of his chest pocket. He started from the left, and Sam leaned forward just enough to see him yank the boy's shorts down on the left-hand side, just low enough to see the boy's left hipbone.

Sam closed his eyes, filled with a sick sort of dread, knowing he'd lost.

He didn't even bother to open then when the hand roughly yanked his jeans down, exposing his new tattoo.

“This one. The rest can go.” The officer pulled him away from the rest of the boys, and led him down a dim hallway, to a small room with a table and two chairs, a large mirror on one wall. One of Sam's wrists was released, only to be handcuffed again behind him, to the metal chair.

“P-please. Help me. H-he kidnapped me. P-please...” Sam tried to make the man understand, but his voice was strangled by his panic. The officer left the room, completely ignoring him.

Sam was left there for what felt like forever. He desperately needed to use the washroom, and pleaded to the mirror, to the cameras in the corners, to be allowed to use one. No one responded, and no one came. Sam let his head drop, and couldn't stop his tears. Eventually he had to let go, and was forced to sit in his own urine-soaked clothing. The smell was awful.

The liquid had had time to cool, and Sam's skin was cold and clammy in the wet denim before the door opened. Sam's head shot up, hoping for the officer, hoping for another chance to beg for help, for freedom.

It was Boris. Sam's hopes shattered.

“Twelve hours is up.” 

Boris's hands were rough, getting the handcuffs off of Sam. He let them drop to the floor with a clatter and hauled Sam to his feet, before pulling out his own pair. Boris's were the type with the hinge between the cuffs, and were much tighter and more restrictive than the police cuffs were.

Boris pulled Sam along the hallways and out a rear exit. Sam didn't have the energy or the heart to try to fight him. The sky was dark, with the barest hint of brightening grey on the horizon. The van was waiting for them, and Castiel was nowhere to be seen, and Sam knew _exactly_ what that meant.

Sam used the last moments before he was shoved into the van to look up at the sky, hoping to see a star, but he couldn't find one.

The ride back to the compound found Sam on his stomach on the floor, one of Boris's boots on the back of his neck, Sam gasping shallow, panicked breaths.

When they arrived, Sam was pushed past the limousine and down the hallway to the elevator. Boris swiped his keycard, and shoved Sam into the elevator when it arrived – Sam fell hard, to his knees. Boris left him there as they went down a floor.

At the soft _ding_ of the elevator arriving on the basement level, Sam's panic reached some sort of critical mass, and he froze on the floor, vision whiting out. If Boris was speaking, Sam couldn't hear him.

Sam wasn't even aware that Boris had removed the handcuffs until he was being hauled up over Boris's shoulders, in a fireman's carry. The hallway seemed shorter than Sam knew it to be... and Natasha was waiting at the door of Sam's cell for them.

Part of Sam wanted to beg and plead, as they stripped his clothes off and fastened the heavy steel restraints around his ankles, wrists, and throat. The other half knew it was absolutely pointless.

Sam kept his silence as they fastened him face-first against the wall, spread eagled, his arms tight, but his legs with a little give to the chains. He jolted as a rough cloth touched his lower back, wet with icy water. It scrubbed over most of him – his arms, chest, stomach, ass, legs - Sam was shivering long before they were done, cold water beading and rolling down his skin.

The next touches, to his upper back, were considerably more gentle, the water warmer. It felt as though each new ring was carefully tended to, moved just a little. Sam kept his forehead pressed against the concrete, and his eyes shut tight. The same careful attention was given to his new tattoo.

The gentle touches stopped, and the two men behind him had a soft conversation. Sam heard the armoire open, and pressed himself as hard as he could against the concrete wall, desperately wishing that he could sink into it and vanish.

There was a soft click, and a moment later slick fingers were rubbing at his hole.

 _No! No, no, nononononono!!_ Sam choked out a sob, and something snug and stretchy was pulled over his head and face. Sam's eyes flew open, but his vision was completely blocked. His breathing was harsh and hot through the fabric, and two fingers were forced up inside him.

Sam clamped his mouth shut at the intrusion, tears spilling to soak into the fabric. He heard the tearing of a foil packet. One of the men behind him said something in Russian, and the other chuckled.

The fingers inside him withdrew. Hard hands gripped his hips and pulled them away from the wall. One released, and pushed down on Sam's lower back, forcing his ass up and out.

“You hear door open, you get into this position.”

Sam said nothing, and the hand on his lower back lifted, only to come slamming down against his left ass cheek. Sam couldn't stop his wail, and tried to pull away, but the hand still on his hip held him in place.

“Polite, please. You answer 'Yes, Sir.'.”

Sam couldn't quite make himself answer, and the hand slammed against his ass again, in exactly the same spot. Sam tried to arch away from the pain, but the hands yanked his hips back, and forced his lower back down.

There was another long pause, as Sam trembled and cried, before finally forcing, “Y-yes, S-sir.” out of his mouth.

“Is better.” And a cock was viciously rammed up inside Sam.

Sam screamed as he felt himself tear, agonizing pain shooting through him. The man behind him grunted and pulled most of the way out, only to slam back inside him. Sam was sobbing hard when something was forced into his mouth, over the hood. The fabric was dry and scratchy against Sam's tongue, and something curved and round, with just a little give filled his mouth as a strap was cinched around the back of his head.

Sam's sobs shifted to his nose, and his sounds were mostly choked off. The man behind him used him brutally, his hands keeping Sam's hips exactly where he wanted them, occasionally shoving Sam's lower back down to present his ass better. Sam felt something hot and wet trickle down his inner thighs.

The man behind Sam said something soft that might've been a curse, stilling. Sam felt him pulse. Sam let his forehead drop against the concrete, so grateful that the man was finished. He pulled sharply from Sam's body, and Sam whimpered into his gag.

As much as Sam wanted to move, to get out of the awful position the Russian wanted him in, he was too frightened to break his stance.

There was a soft rustling of fabric, the tearing of another foil packet, and some murmured words, before another pair of hands gripped Sam's hips.

 _No, please, God, no!!_ Sam couldn't even control the pathetic whine that slipped from him as the man slid inside him. He wasn't as brutal as the first man had been, but the pain in Sam's ass redoubled, and Sam's whine became an anguished groan.

His thrusts seemed to get harder, and all Sam could do was try to endure. Eventually he stilled, and pulled out a little more carefully than the first man had.

Sam felt fingers on the buckle of his gag, and it was removed. He coughed, mouth dry and jaw aching from clenching against it.

“You serve someone, you thank them after.” Boris's voice was low and serious.

Something broke, inside Sam. After everything they'd done, how badly they'd hurt him, what did a few words mean? What had fighting them ever gotten him? If the choice was to say the words, or to willingly suffer more pain, the words meant...

 _Nothing. Nothing at all._ “Thank you, Sirs.” Sam's voice was barely a croak, and it made both Russians laugh.

The hood was pulled up and off of Sam's head, and he blinked against the lights. The chains holding him to the wall were removed, and replaced with a longer one, attached to the base of the wall on one end, and the back of Sam's collar on the other.

Sam sank to the floor, legs sprawled and head hanging. Boris nudged a pail of water, containing a cloth, towards him, on the floor. It slopped over, cold water splashing over Sam's shin, and Sam couldn't even find it within himself to care.

“You clean yourself, after use. Do not touch your back.” Boris stared down at Sam.

“Yes, Sir.” Sam wasn't sure how Boris heard him, seeing as he could barely hear himself. Boris and Natasha left the room, and Sam was left alone.

As exhausted and hurt as he was, Sam wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep, but he was desperately dehydrated. He crawled over to the bathroom nook, praying his chain would be long enough. It was. He pulled himself up, the chain pulling the heavy collar uncomfortably against his throat, and gulped some water from the sink.

He actually felt a little better after his water, and slowly made his way back to his spot on the floor, and the bucket, the blood drying tacky and sticky on his thighs. He used the rough cloth and the cold water to clean up the blood, every shift of his hips or legs hurting him, and tipped it down the grate in the floor once he was finished.

Cold and wet, he curled up on the floor, careful to keep his back and his left hip away from the concrete. He let his tears fall, and recalled vividly the last time he'd been alone in the cell. He closed his eyes, remembering Castiel's gentle touches, his concern and his kind words, and longed desperately for them.

Nobody came.


	6. A Whole New World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is okay. :)

Sam didn't remember falling asleep, but when he woke he was on the concrete floor, curled mostly into a ball, and frozen to the core of his being. He was dry, at least, which meant he'd likely been out for a couple of hours.

Sam tried moving – stretching out his legs – and a sharp spike of pain from his ass caused his breath to hitch. He wondered how badly he was hurt... and if maybe being hurt was a free pass to avoid being raped while he healed.

The small voice in his head laughed at him.

Sam dragged himself to his feet and hobbled to the bathroom nook. He used the facilities, grimacing in pain, washed his hands and gulped some more water. He kept his gaze away from the shower stall, trying not to think about how glorious a hot shower would feel.

He returned to his spot on the floor, and dried his hands with the scratchy cloth, which was dry now. He was draping it neatly over the edge of the bucket when the door opened.

Terror stopped Sam's breathing. Boris's instructions on what he was supposed to do when someone entered his cell slammed themselves into the front of his mind. Sam didn't even look to see who it was... he climbed slowly to his feet, wincing in pain. He moved the chain so that it draped down his chest, rather than his back. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against the cold concrete, face turned towards the bathroom nook, and backed his feet up a little from the wall, spreading them.

It took him a moment to make himself shift his hips, dipping his lower back and sticking his ass out. Something broke inside him when he did – he thought it might have been dignity.

He heard soft voices from somewhere behind him, and recognized Boris and Natasha's. The armoire opened, and the clinking sound of chain didn't even surprise him. The stretchy hood was pulled down over his head, and his arms yanked up and chained. Sam fought to slow his panicked, racing heart.

Sam jumped as something thick, slick and cold was smeared across his hole. It tingled just a little, and moreso when surprisingly gentle fingers worked it inside him. The pain faded, but Sam stiffened as two, and then three, and then what felt like four fingers worked him open, coated in the tingling salve.

Sam kept his eyes clenched tight behind his hood as the fingers gently withdrew, and something large and blunt pressed at his hole. A plug of some sort, but it felt fucking huge. Sam bit back his whimper as it popped into place.

He heard the tearing of a foil packet behind him.

Sam bore it, still and utterly silent as first one Russian used him, and then a second. The plug was apparently hollow, and let the men use Sam without causing him pain. Sam fought the surge of nausea that the surge of gratitude for the plug brought him.

When the second man was done, Sam forced out, “T-thank you, Sirs.” He got a chuckle in response, and heard the rustling of cloth and the sound of zippers. The soft voices moved off to his right, towards the door.

 _Wait, wait, what?? Let me down!!_ Sam didn't dare speak.

The door opened and closed, and there was silence, save for Sam's harsh, shallow breathing.

Sam's mind whirled, not understanding what was happening, why they'd left him chained up. Worst-case scenarios flew through Sam's head – more men were coming, there was going to be a beating, they were just going to _leave_ him strung up...

There was a soft sound of someone clearing their throat, from directly behind Sam.

Sam's heart stuttered, panic spiking...

“You certainly seem to be settling in well.” Cool amusement.

 _Castiel_. Sam whimpered in relief, sagging against his chains.

“It's odd that you're so perfectly obedient here, for my men, when every single little thing is a battle with you, upstairs.” Castiel sounded musing, thoughtful.

“I'm... I'm s-sorry...” Sam kept his voice at a whisper, not sure if he was allowed to speak.

“I'm sure you are.” There was a soft rustle of fabric, and some movement behind him. Sam heard water run off to his left, and then movement close behind him. He tried to stop his trembling.

A gentle touch against his upper back, soft cloth and warm water, the odd sensation of steel moving beneath his skin, and Castiel said nothing further as he tended to Sam's back. After a very long moment of silence, Castiel spoke.

“You do realize, of course, that there was no way that you could have escaped the city, hmm? I have eyes everywhere, and more power than you could imagine.” Castiel let warm fingertips trail down Sam's ribs, down his waist, coming to rest on his hips, carefully avoiding the tattoo.

“Y-yes, _gospodin_.” Sam's voice was small and tremulous. He was beating himself up inside, for being so stupid as to think that running would have bought him freedom.

“And for sheltering you, your Joaquin Gutierrez is no more.” It took a moment for Sam to realize who Castiel was talking about, before he realized that Castiel had squashed Sunny Joey like a bug. 

Castiel seemed to be letting the tension in the room build, as he worked patiently on Sam's back. Sam was itching with the need to apologize, to beg, but the other half of him knew none of it would do any good. His _gospodin_ would let him out when he was good and ready, and not a moment before.

_But... but maybe..._

“ _G-gospodin..._ ” Sam began, hesitantly.

“Hmm?”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He tried again. “I...” Sam swallowed hard. “I'm... I r-really am sorry. I... I know I've b-been b-bad, and I'm sorry.”

“Mhmm.” Castiel's voice was neutral.

“P-please. P-please, it's so... so cold h-here.” Tears started from Sam's eyes, falling to wet the fabric, snug against his skin. He made himself continue, knowing this could very well blow up in his face. “P-please, c-could I m-maybe have a b-blanket, please? P-please...”

Sam closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the wall, steeling himself for whatever was going to come next.

There was a soft chuckle from behind him, and Castiel gripped his hips again. “Kudos to you, for having the spirit to make a request, given your current position.” One hand left Sam's hip, and he felt the plug rocked up into him. The other hand left, and Sam heard Castiel's zipper.

Castiel groaned as he slid into Sam, searing hot and without a condom. Sam shuddered. “Very bold, from one who's literally a piece of human trash, who exists only to be fucked like an obedient little bitch by anyone in my organization who wants a piece.”

 _Oh, God..._ Sam choked off his sob.

“Who...” Castiel was a little out of breath as he pounded into Sam. “Who sticks out his ass, begging to be fucked by anyone... anyone who walks through his door.” Castiel groaned and stilled, spilling inside Sam.

Castiel let his hips go, and pulled out and away. Sam cringed when he realized Castiel's release was dripping out of him and onto the floor. He could _hear_ it. He blushed crimson, under his hood.

He was surprised to hear a soft _snick_ , and his left arm was released from the chains, followed by his right. He lowered them just a little, keeping his palms flat against the wall. A heartbeat later and there was a terrific amount of pressure on the front of this throat, as Castiel yanked him off the wall by the heavy steel collar.

Castiel folded up Sam's hood high enough that his coughing, gasping mouth was exposed, before forcing Sam down onto his knees. A hard hand on the back of his neck forced Sam's face almost to the floor.

“Lick,” Castiel grated out, his voice low and rough. “Clean up your fucking mess.”

Sam knew now that it was indeed his dignity that had broken earlier. If he'd had any left at all, it was lost with gritty concrete dust and bitter come against his tongue.

Sam licked blindly, not having any idea if he'd gotten it all or not, before Castiel released his neck. Sam sat up, feeling overwhelmingly ill, keeping his head bowed.

The hood was pulled up and off, and Sam squinted against the light. Castiel had moved away, to the armoire. When he spoke again, it was from beside the door.

“In case it was in any way unclear, you _worthless_ fucking whore, the answer to your request is no.” The door closing behind him echoed in Sam's ears.

Sam crunched over in his spot on the floor, fighting vomiting. He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked, so desperate for even the tiniest bit of comfort. It took him some time to try to pull himself together, but when he managed, he climbed to his feet, his legs shaking and the wretchedly large plug stretching him uncomfortably. He tottered over to the bathroom nook and leaned heavily on the sink, turning the water on to run.

He stood trembling for a long moment, before finally deciding. He opened his mouth and reached the first two fingers of his right hand into his mouth, hard and deep enough to trigger his gag reflex. He vomited hard into the sink, and rinsed it immediately afterwards, and then rinsed his mouth over and over, checking to see between mouthfuls if he still had the grit of concrete dust between his teeth. When it seemed to be gone, he drank several handfuls of the icy water.

The door opened again. Sam froze, his eyes darting to the doorway.

A man Sam didn't know entered his room, a battered bowl in one hand. He bent over and dropped it onto the floor near Sam's spot. “Eat.” He turned and left.

Sam couldn't see what was in the bowl, from beside the sink. His stomach growled at the thought of food. One hand against the wall for balance, he walked slowly back to his spot. He knelt between the wall and the bowl, frowning down at it.

If Sam didn't know better, he'd think it was a glob of lumpy wallpaper paste. It was vaguely greyish, and had... chunks of... something mixed in. Meat, maybe. He reached for the bowl... and froze.

Sam would bet his bottom dollar that if he touched the bowl with his hands, that someone would likely come into his cell and put a boot up his ass – literally. (Probably coated with the tingly salve, but still, a boot up his ass.)

Sam bent down, his face over the bowl, and gave it a tentative sniff. _Even smells a little like wallpaper paste._ He licked some of the tepid, sticky mess into his mouth, and had to fight hard not to spit it right back out. It had maybe been oatmeal, at some point, several months ago. The small pieces of meat were tough and stringy between his teeth.

Sam forced himself to eat it, knowing he was already malnourished and needed the sustenance. The lump in the bowl seemed interminable, and when it was finally gone he sat back up a little too quickly – a wave of nausea hit him, and he clamped a hand over his sticky mouth to try to keep the food down. He managed, but barely.

Afterwards, there was one final trip to the washroom nook to relieve himself and get the mess off his face. He brought the bowl with him, and rinsed it as well as he could, drying it and his hands and face with his small cloth.

When he was finished, he set the bowl back on the floor, roughly where the man had dropped it. He curled up on the floor in his spot, on his side, shivering and ass spread wide around the plug, and waited for sleep to come.

 

*

 

Sam's world narrowed substantially. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but his life was reduced to service, bowls of the disgusting food, care for his piercings, poor, intermittent sleep, and unrelenting cold. Cold water, cold food, cold air, cold floor.

Castiel didn't return.

Sam had been curled up on the floor when one of the men brought a woman into his cell, just the one time. The man had grabbed the chain at the back of his neck and pulled it taut, making Sam sit up straight and choke and cough, as the woman stripped the bed of its unused linens, replacing them with fresh, wonderful-smelling ones. Sam revelled in the clean cotton smell. The man didn't let go of the chain until the woman had left his cell. When she was gone, he'd forced Sam face-first against the wall and used him. Sam kept his eyes closed, blocking out what was happening to him and focusing on how amazing his cell smelled.

His ass had had enough time to heal, thanks to the tingly salve, and they mostly kept a plug inside him. Sam was mortified to the core of his being every time he needed to remove it to use the washroom, only to have one of the men show up in his cell shortly afterwards, lube him, stretch him, and reinsert the plug.

Sam had plenty of time to think in the large number of hours he was left completely alone. He thought about how much better his leather bonds had been, how much gentler on his skin, and how much lighter and more comfortable. He thought about his narrow mat on the floor, and the thin blanket. He thought about his wonderful, soft cushions. About the soft, deep murmur of the ocean.

Sam knew that there was something wrong with him, that he was preoccupied with the 'pet' furniture Castiel had. He was a human being, and he knew he ought to be thinking about freedom, about escape... but Castiel had made it so very clear that any attempt he made would fail that he didn't dwell on it.

He didn't even think about the soft bed on the other side of his cell, or Castiel's wonderfully comfortable bed. Castiel had made both of those as completely inaccessible to him as escape was.

Which left his life, the meagre furniture he was given, in the suite upstairs.

Sam closed his eyes and imagined himself on the cushion in front of the windows, the sun warm against his skin.

The only thing that gave Sam the tiniest sliver of hope was that every time he was used, the person behind him wore a condom. Castiel had been the only one to ever use him without one, and Sam hoped that maybe that meant that some day Castiel might come back for him.

'Some day' arrived.

Sam had been huddled into himself, trying to conserve some body heat, and imagining himself on the beach, warm sun beating down on him, turning his skin a deep golden brown, rather than the sickly white that it was now.

The door opened, and Castiel walked in. Sam's breath stopped in his chest, but he climbed to his feet, and wordlessly assumed his stance against the wall. He pressed his forehead against it so hard that it hurt, but there was nothing from behind him but a soft rustle of fabric.

“ _Solnishko._ ” Castiel's voice was soft. Sam's heart broke at the term of endearment. “Come here and kneel, dear one.”

Sam turned towards him, and walked to him on shaking legs. He kept his head down and his gaze on the floor. Castiel had sat on the edge of the bed, and his legs were spread wide. Sam slipped to his knees between them, careful not to accidentally brush against the fabric of Castiel's pants.

A gentle hand touched the crown of Sam's head, smoothing over his hair. Sam's eyes flickered shut, and he was pathetically grateful for the kind touches. Castiel said nothing for a few long moments, carding his fingers through Sam's hair.

“Do you understand now, _solnishko_? Do you understand what your options are?”

“Yes, si... _gospodin_.” Sam whispered, his voice rough, catching himself at the last possible moment. The ' _gospodin_ ' had been the first word out of Sam's mouth in a very long time that hadn't been some combination of 'yes', 'thank you', or 'sir'.

Gentle fingers lifted his chin, and brushed away tears Sam hadn't even known had fallen.

“So I'll ask you one final time. Do you wish to stay with me?” Castiel kept his voice soft. Sam hadn't even remembered how impossibly blue his eyes were.

“Y-yes! P-please... p-please?” Sam stammered, desperately afraid that this would be the last chance he'd ever have to be freed from his cell.

Castiel released his chin and sat back a little, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a small smile. “Beg me, Sam.”

Sam hunched over, and didn't even try to hide his sob. His forehead touched the soft blankets on the edge of the bed. “P-please. I... I w-want to b-be yours. P-please l-let me... I... I w-want to b-be with you. P-please.”

“You don't want your freedom?” Castiel inquired.

Sam's brain slammed through the logic of 'freedom means capture, capture means the cell'. “N-no. P-please. Only... I only w-want to be with you. Please.” Sam's fingers clenched painfully tight on his thighs, and Sam fought the desperate urge to grab Castiel's leg and never let go with everything he had.

“But my men will be sad to lose their favourite toy. You've been highly entertaining for them.” Castiel's voice was gently mocking, and Sam flushed brick-red, all the way up to the tips of his ears.

“P-please.” Barely a whimper.

“And if I take you back upstairs, we're not going to have any... issues, are we? You're going to be my good boy.”

“Y-yes! I... I promise t-to be g-good. I p-promise.” Sam poured every bit of pleading he could into his words, hoping with every fibre of his being that...

“All right. Let's go upstairs, dear one.” Castiel bent over and began to remove Sam's collar and cuffs.

Sam, for his part, was completely overwhelmed – so grateful and thankful, colossally relieved and simultaneously utterly terrified that he was going to screw something up. He visibly sagged, and was pliant as Castiel removed the heavy steel.

Castiel stood and helped Sam to his feet, pulling Sam into a tight hug against his chest. Sam burst into tears, wrapping his arms around Castiel, clutching handfuls of the back of his shirt, pressing his face into the crook of Castiel's neck, wetting his skin and shirt with his tears.

“Shh, shh, dear one. It's all right. You're all right. You're forgiven. Come.”

Castiel led Sam from the cell that had been his entire world, and back into the light.


	7. Pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first I have to thank you guys so, so much for your incredible kindness.
> 
> Secondly, the delay in posting this was a result of me getting strep throat and pneumonia and bronchitis... at the same time. I've been off work for two weeks, but too ill to write.
> 
> Thirdly, you guys... I don't even have language to thank you guys for your support, and for sticking with me, and (for the most part) being patient and understanding while life tears me a new one.
> 
> Thank you.

Sam clung desperately to Castiel as he was led down the hallway, into the elevator (which was blissfully empty, this time), and back to the suite. The cool tiles of the elevator floor felt strange under his feet, and the carpeted hall even moreso; other than his small, scratchy cloth and punishing grips, the only touch Sam had had against his skin had been bare concrete, for... Sam wasn't sure how long.

Sam dared to heave a silent sigh of relief, as Castiel unlocked the door to the suite and guided him inside. His heart somehow leapt and sank at the same time, upon seeing his cushions exactly where they had been before.

Castiel's voice was a murmur in his ear as he pulled Sam down the hallway to the bathroom. “I'm sure you've noticed there weren't any guards in the elevator, nor at the door, hmm?” Castiel released him and moved to face him, lifting a hand to Sam's shoulder, and pushing gently down.

Sam lowered himself to kneel. “Y-yes, _gospodin_?” His voice was tremulous, and he tilted his head up a little, his eyes darting upwards, seeing a small smile on Castiel's face.

“Yes.” Castiel stroked a hand through Sam's hair. “That's because we won't be _needing_ them, will we, _solnishko_? You wouldn't be foolish enough to try to run.”

“N-no, _gospodin_. N-never.” Sam lowered his gaze and tried not to tremble.

“Good boy. Run a bath, dear one.” Castiel ruffled Sam's hair, turned, and left the bathroom.

Sam sat stock still for a moment, before realizing what Castiel had said. He turned, still on his knees, and moved to the taps, spinning the handles until he had a (gloriously) hot stream coming from them. He placed the plug in the drain, and watched the tub begin to fill.

His hand twitched, against the edge of the tub. He desperately wanted to dip his fingers into the hot water, wanted to dip _himself_ into the hot water, but he didn't dare... not without permission. He retracted his hand and clenched them in his lap to avoid the temptation.

When he thought the tub was full enough, he leaned over to turn the taps off, and Castiel reentered the bathroom, his hands full of Sam's leather cuffs and collar. Sam swallowed hard.

“Come.” Castiel placed the leather on the counter, and held out a hand to Sam.

Sam stood on shaky legs, and walked the few steps to Castiel, taking his hand. Castiel smiled and guided Sam to lean with his butt against the counter. Castiel picked up the ankle cuffs, and looked thoughtfully at them.

“Do you want these back, dear one?” Castiel's gaze was piercing.

 _Leather cuffs, or steel ones? Choose._ “Y-yes, _gospodin_ , p-please.”

“Well. Your time downstairs has certainly improved your manners.” The corner of Castiel's mouth quirked up in a smile, and he knelt, wrapping the leather around Sam's ankles, and securing them with the locks.

Sam frowned, just a little. _Looser. Those are definitely looser than they were before._ Sam's belief was reinforced when Castiel fastened the wrist cuffs. The collar, however, seemed to be just as snug as it always had been.

“Your time downstairs has improved your physique, as well.” Castiel ran possessive hands down Sam's ribs, to his waist, to hipbones that were unquestionably more prominent. Castiel moved a little closer, and ran his hands up the twin rows of rings in Sam's back, which pulled a gasp from him. “And these have healed beautifully.” One hand trailed back down the knobs of Sam's spine, and Castiel made a small, contented noise that Sam wasn't even sure he knew he'd made.

“Come. Into the tub.” Castiel pulled him off the edge of the counter, and gave his bottom a gentle pat.

Sam moved to the tub and climbed in carefully, lowering himself with a soft groan. It was glorious. It was heaven. It was the warmest he'd been in... The tub was big enough that Sam could submerge his whole body, face and all, so he did, revelling in the embrace of the hot water.

He counted it as a personal victory that he only thought very briefly of trying to drown himself.

A gentle hand against the back of his neck pulled his face back above the water. Sam didn't fight it, but kept his eyes closed, and startled when Castiel's mouth pressed hard against his own. He parted his lips at the press of Castiel's tongue, and let Castiel plunder his mouth, the grip on the back of his neck tightening.

Castiel broke off the kiss and murmured something that wasn't English, and the grip on Sam's neck tightened so hard that it pulled a whimper from him. The grip released at once, softening to cradle his neck, and Sam's eyes flickered open to see Castiel staring at him, transfixed.

Castiel seemed frozen, his face blank. Sam's fear began to ratchet upwards, his breathing shallow and his heart pounding.

“So long.” Castiel's voice was a strangled whisper. “You made me wait _so long_ for this.”

Sam knew his stay in the cell was a result of his own actions, knew it was entirely his own fault. “I'm sorry...” Sam's voice wasn't any louder than Castiel's had been.

Castiel heaved a deep sigh and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he seemed calmer, more collected. “I know you are. I know. Now, come, let's get you clean.”

This time around it was easy, it was simple to sit very still under Castiel's touches, to move when and how he was directed to, to enjoy the wonderfully scented bath products, to feel as if he was washing the presence of the cell – of Castiel's disapproval - off of him.

It was warm, in the light of Castiel's good graces. Warm and safe, scratchy-towelled and smelling of almond milk. Sam fought to be still, to be good, and not fling himself at Castiel and never let go.

“That's better, isn't it?” Castiel asked softly, as he brushed the tangles from Sam's hair.

“Yes, _gospodin_.” Sam exhaled, on a sigh, which made Castiel chuckle.

“Let's have some dinner, hmm? And relax a little before bed.” Castiel took Sam's hand and led him to the dining area, where his cushion was still in place near Castiel's chair. Sam sank onto it before Castiel had even let go of his hand, and Castiel smiled, startled and pleased.

Sam sighed quietly and grasped handfuls of the soft fabric. It was wonderfully comfortable, soft and warm and 100% not cold, rough concrete. It was so comfortable that Sam laid right down on it and closed his eyes, curled up on his side, and rubbed his cheek against the plush fabric.

There was a soft _tink_ noise from somewhere in front of Sam, and he opened his eyes and turned his head to see his food bowl on the floor. He lifted his head, and his eyes widened when he saw the vegetables, rice, and cubed chicken breast. His mouth watered, and he scrambled into a kneel, lowering his face to his bowl and eating hungrily, so grateful that it wasn't the lumpy paste from the cell.

Delicious smells wafted down from the table to Sam's nose, but they didn't concern him. When Sam was done, there wasn't so much as a single grain of rice left in his bowl, and hardly any mess on his face... and he was still hungry. Though the food had been infinitely more delicious than the paste from the cell, there simply hadn't been much of it.

Sam turned his face up to allow Castiel to clean it, and sat silently as Castiel ate, staring at his empty bowl.

“Yes, I know you'd like more. But we need to watch your figure.” Castiel offered softly, picking up Sam's bowl, and returning it and his plate to the kitchen.

 _My figure??_ Sam knew he'd lost weight in the cell, and maybe quite a bit of it. He'd been slim when he'd been taken, but now he could count ribs in the bathroom mirror.

There was a soft tug on the loop on the back of his collar. Castiel had slipped a finger in and tugged, leading Sam to the living room area. Castiel moved the cushion to directly in front of the sofa and sat, legs spread wide bracketing the cushion. Sam curled up on it, careful not to touch.

“You may rest against my legs, or against the couch, for now.” Castiel picked up his book.

Sam desperately wished that he didn't want to, but endless hours alone in the cell had left him profoundly touch-starved, desperate for any sort of gentle contact that didn't involve cold or pain or rape. He turned, resting with his back against the soft couch, and wrapped his arms around Castiel's right leg, clinging tightly. He pressed his cheek against Castiel's thigh and closed his eyes.

“Sweet boy.” Barely a murmur from above him, and a gentle hand carding slowly through his hair.

Sam couldn't help but think that Castiel's 'sweet boy' had it about a million times better than his 'worthless fucking whore' did. And he knew which side of that particular fence he wanted to stay on.

 

*

 

It was a quiet evening, which Sam spent clutching Castiel's leg and allowing the rhythmic susurration of the ocean to lull him into calmness.

Everything – everything was so much better. So much better.

There was a gentle tug on Sam's hair, and he perked up a little, releasing his death grip on Castiel's leg and rubbing his eyes.

“ _Solnishko._ Here.” A gentle tap on his cheek, and Sam turned to find Castiel with a glass of water in one hand, and a blue, diamond-shaped pill in the other, offering them to him.

Sam froze. _Viagra. He... he wants..._

Not once since he'd been taken had Sam been hard. Not once had he felt sexual pleasure, or release... he was simply a vessel for others to use to find their own.

This felt like some sort of tipping point, for Sam. Something he wasn't sure he could find his way back from. This was Sam granting Castiel possession of one of the few things that hadn't already been wrenched from him. Something he was pretty sure that he didn't trust Castiel with – not even a little.

_Sweet boy, or worthless fucking whore._

_Just a john._

Sam took the pill.

 

*

 

An hour later, Sam was bound blindfolded, spread-eagled, face-down on Castiel's massive bed. There was more slack in the ropes than he'd thought there would be... enough to let him draw his knees up underneath him, if he pulled the ropes holding his wrists taut.

Castiel had been generous with his touches, stroking Sam's skin and his hair and his diamond-hard cock, thanks to what seemed to have been a colossal dose of the drug. Sam was a sweating, whimpering, needy mess on the bed, writhing and straining against the ropes – he wasn't sure himself if he wanted more of Castiel's touches, or less. He only knew that he desperately needed to come.

There was no position that Sam could work himself into that Castiel didn't have full access to his cock and his ass, a fact which Castiel abused mercilessly. Sam's hole was slick and loose, every brush of Castiel's fingers against his prostate glorious and agonizing, all at once.

Sam desperately wanted to beg. To be released, to be _allowed_ release, to be allowed to rest...

_Don't speak. Don't speak unless asked a direct question, or otherwise given explicit permission. Understood?_

Tears slicked Sam's cheeks from under the blindfold, his bottom lip bitten swollen and bloody from his attempts to keep his words behind his teeth. His strength was beginning to fade, tremors running through him.

“Ah, dear one. So beautiful. Perhaps that's enough for now, hmm?”

Sam thanked whatever gods existed that Castiel was finished with his spectacular-gutwrenching teasing. He was daring to draw a slightly deeper breath as Castiel pulled his legs out from under him, pressing Sam's lower back into the bed while angling his hips and ass up.

Sam stayed in the position Castiel put him in, clenching his eyes shut as Castiel slid inside him with a soft groan. Gentle rolls of Castiel's hips turned into thrusting, turned into brutal thrusting that would have slid Sam up the bed, were it not for the ropes at his ankles.

Sam prayed that the hammering of his prostate would allow him to come. He'd never in his life, not once managed to come simply from penetration, but maybe the combination of Castiel's cock slamming into his prostate and the wild overstimulation from the teasing and the drug...

Castiel's hips stuttered to a stop, and Sam felt his release pulsing into his guts.

 _Did... did that mean... ... what did that mean?_ Sam didn't dare move.

Sam felt Castiel's forehead drop to touch between his shoulderblades, Castiel's panting breaths hot against the sweat chilling Sam's skin. After a few moments, Castiel pulled out and away, and Sam felt the ropes at his ankles released. Castiel slid off the bed, and walked around to each side to release Sam's wrists and remove the blindfold.

“Come.” Castiel sounded exhausted. “A quick rinse in the shower before bed.”

Sam was still achingly hard, dying to be permitted to come as he slid to the edge of the bed and stood. The urge to beg reared its head again, and Sam clamped down on it, hard.

Castiel took his hand and led him to the bathroom, where he ran a cool shower and chivvied Sam into it. Castiel took it upon himself to smooth the water over Sam's skin, especially careful to rinse the slickness from between his ass cheeks.

The touches there pulled a groan from Sam's throat, and before he could stop himself, the 'please' slipped from between his lips. Sam froze, terrified of what Castiel might...

“Please what, dear one?” Castiel's voice was soft and kind, which was so diametrically opposite of what Sam was expecting that he was thrown completely for a loop. Castiel knelt, smoothing his hands down Sam's legs.

“Hmm?” Castiel looked up at him, and wrapped a firm hand around the base of Sam's cock. A long, slick pull upwards, and Sam choked, his knees wobbling dangerously.

“Pleaseletmecome.” A strangled whimper, forced out of Sam's tight throat.

Castiel chuckled, stood, and turned the water off, moving Sam out of the shower and drying him roughly, before picking up a fresh towel and drying himself.

Sam's knees were weak enough that he thought he'd probably fall, so he lowered himself to kneel, letting his head drop. Perhaps his obeisance would make Castiel look a little more kindly upon his request.

“Another lesson, then. I told you once that my partner's pleasure is important to me, and that hasn't changed. But pleasure and release aren't the same thing, dear one.”

_Wait... what??_

“You'd do well to appreciate the pleasure I _do_ give you, rather than to request things that you have not yet earned.”

The last four words dropped from Castiel's mouth like shards of ice, though his voice was even and calm. Sam's heart stuttered in his chest and his breath hitched. A firm grip on his wrist, and Castiel pulled him back up to his feet, back down the hall to the bedroom.

Sam wasn't foolish enough to assume he'd earned a stay on Castiel's bed, so when Castiel released his wrist, he moved immediately to his mat, lying down on his back, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the throbbing ache from his cock.

Castiel fastened the chain to the front of his collar... and then pulled his wrists up, and locked them so that Sam couldn't lower his hands much below his collarbone.

“Not that I believe you'd seek your own pleasure without permission, but best to remove the temptation, hmm?”

“Y-yes, _gospodin_.” The whisper, Sam hoped, helped to hide some of his despair.

“That _does_ look quite painful, though. I'll be right back.” Castiel was only gone for a few moments before he returned, holding an oblong blue gel pack, which he carefully wrapped in a fitted fabric pouch. Castiel perched on the edge of the bed and leaned down, placing the pack on the length of Sam's rigid cock... and it was _searingly_ cold.

Sam whined and reflexively tried to bring his hands down, causing the chain to clink. Castiel sat back up and used his right foot to hold the ice pack in place, rocking it against Sam's cock and balls.

Every one of Sam's muscles was tense and taut. At one point Castiel bent down and flipped the ice pack over, renewing the ghastly cold and forcing tears from Sam's eyes.

After what seemed like forever, Castiel bent and removed the pack. Sam's eyes were drawn down, as well, to his cock, which was thankfully, blissfully limp. Sam sagged back against his mat with a whimper.

“That's better, isn't it, _solnishko_?” Castiel set the ice pack aside, and pulled up Sam's blanket, tucking him in.

“Y-yes, th-thank you, _gospodin_.” And Sam meant it - as awful as it had been, it was infinitely better than a viciously hard cock with no chance of relief.

“Rest now. Sweet dreams, dear one.” Castiel folded down his blankets and crawled into bed, vanishing from Sam's view.

“Sw-sweet dreams, _gospodin_.” Sam didn't know if Castiel had heard his whisper – if he had, there wasn't any response. Sam hoped he had, though, and had a wild hope that somehow it would prevent Castiel from torturing Sam ever again, the way he had tonight.


	8. Contrasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.
> 
> I always quietly chuckled to myself, when my fellow authors reported having writer's block. Having never had it myself, I was quick to repeat the trite 'just write!' advice I'd seen online.
> 
> And then it happened to me. My muse up and took off for a vacation in Antigua. For two months. And it was _agonizing_.
> 
> So that's why this chapter was so late. And also why it's short. I'm rusty, and this was difficult, but I hope it's okay.

Sam had a very rough night.

Having his hands bound near his throat had been more challenging than he thought it would be – it seemed that at any given point, _some_ part of his body was itchy, and he couldn't reach it. He was exhausted and shivering, because at one point he'd tried to scratch an itch on his left thigh with his right foot, and lost the blanket in the process.

It was honestly a bit of a relief, when Castiel began to move on the bed and sat up, yawning and rumpling his hair. Sam fought the urge to speak, waiting impatiently for Castiel to address him.

Castiel climbed down off the bed. He spared Sam a glance, his face absolutely neutral, before moving away towards the door. 

Sam watched him go, his heart breaking that Castiel had ignored him, hadn't greeted him. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong. Sam clamped his mouth shut and tried to blink back the tears that were prickling in the corners of his eyes.

The shower started, and Sam caught the faintest whiff of Castiel's body wash.

When steps approached the bedroom, Sam's heart rate rocketed, but he did his best to stay still and calm as Castiel moved to his side and knelt. The chain holding his wrists near his throat, and holding him tethered to the bed was removed, and Castiel helped him to sit up.

“Go have a drink of water, brush your teeth and use the facilities.” Castiel moved to his closet and began to dress, selecting a deep charcoal grey suit.

Sam climbed to his feet and tottered to the washroom, doing exactly as he'd been told, moving mechanically through each step of Castiel's instructions in the order they'd been given. When he was finished, he froze in the middle of the bathroom, not certain what he was supposed to do next, and too afraid to move.

Castiel came and fetched him, not seeming to notice Sam's fear. A firm grip around Sam's left wrist, and Castiel was pulling him down the hall, to stop at one of the doors that Sam hadn't yet seen open.

Sam said a quick, silent prayer that it wasn't going to be some sort of... torture dungeon, before the door opened, and beyond it was a spacious office. A large, heavy wooden desk dominated it. Two chairs sat before it, and a luxurious office chair behind it. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and a large window comprised most of the far wall. One of the square cushions was placed neatly on the floor, to the left side of the desk.

Castiel moved to sit at his desk, and released Sam's wrist. Sam sank down onto his cushion, curling up and facing Castiel, his head and gaze lowered.

Sam heard voices from outside of the room, and stiffened. Someone entered the office, but Sam didn't look up, and soon he smelled breakfast – hot breakfast, eggs and bacon and toast... Castiel exchanged a few non-English words with the man who had brought it. Sam's mouth watered so badly that he had to keep on swallowing.

There was a soft tap on the top of Sam's head, and he lifted it enough to see a small piece of buttered toast in Castiel's hand, seemingly having been dipped in egg yolk. Sam opened his mouth, and Castiel popped it inside. Sam savoured the flavour, taking his time chewing it, hoping for more, but Castiel simply returned to his food. Sam lowered his head again.

The single bite of breakfast was almost worse than no breakfast at all.

Once Castiel had finished eating, and someone had taken his plate, Sam heard a drawer open.

“ _Solnishko_. Look at me.” Sam's gaze darted up, and Castiel had moved his chair to face Sam. Draped between his hands was a length of very, very fine gold chain, much like the cheap necklaces Sam had gotten so good at lifting from flea markets, to sell for a couple of dollars to the other vendors. Except this one was about six feet long, and Sam couldn't see any sort of clasps on the ends.

“You're very beautiful, but now it's time to practice your posture.” Castiel's voice was soft, calm, and instructive. “You'll turn your back to me, and I'll thread this through the rings on your back. You may sit, or kneel, but you _will_ keep your shoulders back, your back straight, and your hands behind your back. And God help you, if you should snap my chain.” Castiel chuckled.

Sam's heart stopped.

Castiel nudged him with a knee, and Sam turned numbly on his cushion to sit cross-legged facing the rest of the office – only to see Boris and Natasha standing there, flanking the door. Sam froze, unable to stop his whine of fear.

Another chuckle from behind him, and Castiel's warm hands on his skin, arching his lower back forward, pulling his shoulders back a little, stroking smoothly down his arms, guiding his fingers to interlace loosely just above his ass.

Sam couldn't feel the tension of the chain between the rings, couldn't feel it moving, could only feel where it brushed softly against his skin, as Castiel took his time weaving a shimmering corset down Sam's back. Sam felt him fumble the chain through the D-rings of his cuffs, and lower what was left of the chain into Sam's hands.

There was a long moment of silence, as Sam lowered his head and stared down at the edge of his cushion, trying to keep his breaths shallow to minimize the movement of his chest and shoulders.

“ _Christ_ , you're beautiful, Sam.” Castiel sounded as though he was amazed when he really didn't want to be. Another long pause, and Castiel spoke again. “I have several meetings today, which you will be by my side for. I'll trust you to keep your silence, as well. Understood?”

“Y-yes, _gospodin_.” Sam's voice was a raspy whisper, and it sounded strange in his own ears.

“Good boy.” A gentle hand stroked down the back of Sam's head and gave the nape of his neck a gentle squeeze, before retreating.

 

*

 

The first meeting was a fairly short one, conducted entirely in Russian. Sam didn't bother to look up, and could only see the man's dress pants and shoes out of his peripheral vision. Both his and Castiel's voices were calm, and whatever they were discussing seemed to have turned out amicably for both parties. Sam saw the movement as he took his leave.

“ _Solnishko._ ” A gentle tap on Sam's shoulder, and Sam barely managed not to flinch. He twisted a little, looking back over his left shoulder to Castiel, who had a chunk of something which resembled a granola bar in his hand, and was holding it out towards Sam's mouth. Sam opened for it, and it was quite unpleasantly dry, crumbly, and unsweetened. There were a couple more bites of it, which Sam accepted without complaint, before Castiel nudged his shoulder, indicating that he should turn back around.

The second meeting seemed a little longer, this time with a woman in black stockings and Louboutins and a man with a voice even deeper than Castiel's. The woman was closer to Sam, and at one point she reached out to touch him, her fingers brushing along his collarbone until Castiel's voice cracked like a whip, and her hand retreated.

After that point, Sam thought he felt a distinct iciness in the air, and he was glad when the two of them left.

By now, Sam was starting to feel quite stiff, though the stiffness had yet to morph into pain, which Sam knew was likely the next step. His fear ratcheted up as tremors began to run through his arms – he was terrified that a twitch from one of them would break the fragile chain.

There was a bit of a pause, where Castiel fed Sam a few more bites of the awful granola bar, and let him have a few sips of blissfully cool water, before the next meeting began. Castiel was typing on his laptop when heavy footsteps entered the room, and a completely naked young woman was forced to her knees, right in front of Sam.

Sam's gaze shot up reflexively, and met the young woman's, which was perfectly, eerily blank. She had wide green eyes and long blonde hair, in loose ringlets, and she'd clearly been horrifically abused. The man with her rested a heavy hand on her shoulder.

He greeted Castiel warmly, and they shook hands, and began their discussion.

Sam fought not to vomit.

She'd likely been very beautiful, before she was taken. As it was, she was about twenty pounds underweight, the bones of her face perfectly symmetrical but far too pronounced. There was an ugly brand on her right cheek, the backwards 'n' and another character Sam didn't recognize. Heavy weights hung from rings through her nipples. She was covered in scars and bruises, her arms bound cruelly behind her.

And she was _young_. Sam wouldn't put her at a day over eighteen. Her skin was firm, but sickly pale. Sam stared into her eyes, looking for a flash of recognition, of acknowledgement that there was another human being _right in front of her_ , but there was absolutely nothing.

Sam wasn't sure if it was drugs, or if she'd been broken so badly that she wasn't even there any more. Or maybe a little of both.

Sam had a momentary surge of horror, wondering if this was what waited for him under Castiel's care. His eyes were fixated on her, as wide and unblinking as hers were. He swallowed hard against the saliva pooling in his mouth, the need to vomit rising powerfully within him.

The man laughed, and when he switched to English, it was badly broken. “He feel for her! He like her? You think he want to fuck?” The man's hand slid from the girl's shoulder to the back of her neck, squeezing and shaking her roughly.

She didn't even flinch, didn't even blink.

“Your pet is beautiful. I'm sure he'd love to, but he knows to whom he belongs.” Castiel's voice was calm, with a hint of coolness.

The first of Sam's tears slid down his cheeks, despite his best efforts to contain them.

“Ha!” The man laughed. “He cannot, he no have key! Show!” The man smacked the girl hard, upside the head, and she spread her legs wider and leaned back. Both of her labia had been crudely pierced, and a heavy padlock fed through the holes.

Sam twisted away to his right, his stomach heaved, and he vomited all over Castiel's hardwood. Somehow, he heard the tiny _tink_ of the chain breaking, over his own retching.

Castiel switched back into Russian, stood, and after a very short discussion the man and his pet left.

Sam tried to sit back up, his mouth foul, tears still falling. He tried to keep his hands behind his back, though he knew the damage had already been done. Sam heard Castiel murmur some commands to his men, and his sobs turned into shallow hyperventilation as the panic rose within him. 

Sam could barely see the towel which was placed on the floor before him, one of Castiel's men cleaning his vomit from the floor. Castiel's arms wrapped around him as Sam started to shake.

“Shh, shh, dear one.” Castiel kissed the side of Sam's neck, just above his collar, warm lips lingering against Sam's skin. “Hush.”

Sam was finding it difficult to calm himself, as he was pretty convinced that at any moment he was about to begin his final one-way trip back to the cell in the basement. He heard a soft sigh from Castiel, and more murmured Russian. A moment later there was the sting of an injection in his left shoulder.

Sam whimpered and tried to curl into himself, sickened and heartbroken and horrified, but Castiel didn't loosen his grip. He kept up his low stream of soft reassurances, holding Sam tight, and gradually Sam's sobs tapered off, as whatever was in the shot settled over him like a heavy, warm blanket.

Feeling the change in Sam's body language, Castiel released his tight grip. His hands moved to Sam's back, and Sam heard the thin chain break over and over again, pieces of it whispering down his back to land on the floor. Castiel moved Sam's aching arms back in front of him, moved to Sam's side, and scooped him up, cradling Sam against his chest.

Sam's tears tapered off into nothing, and he stared at nothing as Castiel rocked him, the drug replacing his heartache with something that felt cool, and calm, and empty.

“ _Solnishko._ ” A gentle, warm kiss to Sam's forehead. “I'm sorry.”

Sam blinked, and then blinked again, deeply confused.

A soft sigh from Castiel. “Grigori is a brute. He enjoys torturing his girls, and throws them away when he's done with them. I did not know he was planning on bringing one with him today. The one he brought today probably doesn't have long left.”

Sam frowned, his brow crinkling, and tried his voice. “ _S-save_ her.”

Castiel chuckled softly. “Ah, sweet boy. She is not mine to save. I saved _you_.” Another gentle kiss to Sam's forehead.

Sam wondered what it was that he'd been saved for. His voice was small, when he spoke. “Am... am I going back to...” Sam swallowed hard. “... to the c-cell now?”

“No, dear one. No. We'll get you cleaned up, get some food and liquids into you, and then you can rest.”

Sam didn't quite manage to keep his whimper of relief to himself. He knew he'd just dodged a colossal bullet, and he wasn't entirely sure how.

 

*

 

Sam made it through dully brushing his teeth, being bathed by Castiel, and eating some soup and toast from Castiel's hand. As he was finishing his food, some of the omnipresent fear that he'd been feeling since he'd been taken began to work its jagged way back up through the haze of drugs.

After the food, Castiel led Sam over to the couch. He sat Sam on it, upright, before moving to place a record on the turntable. There was more quiet classical music, and Castiel returned to sit on the couch, very close to one end.

“Come. Lie down.” Castiel held out a hand to Sam, and Sam took it, lying down on his side, his head pillowed on Castiel's thigh.

A gentle hand stroked his hair back, before vanishing for a moment, and then the soft blanket from the back of the couch was draped warmly over him.

Sam snuggled into it with a soft sigh, feeling somehow more comfortable, warmer, and safer than he'd felt since arriving at Castiel's compound.

Sam heard Castiel sigh, and the gentle stroking of Sam's hair started up again. Sam let his eyes flicker shut.

“I hope you realize, sweet boy, that there's a fundamental difference between my ownership of you and Grigori's ownership of his whores.” Castiel's voice was soft and soothing. “I expect obedience and respect, of course, and while I may mold you to my liking, it's not my goal to mutilate you, or _break_ you – not the way Grigori breaks his girls.”

Sam's breath hitched, but with the drugs clear of his system, he didn't dare speak.

“Do you understand the difference, _solnishko_?” Castiel's voice was a murmur.

“Y-yes, _gospodin_ ,” Sam whispered, safe in his blanket cocoon.

“I have no great need to be kind to you, though you will know kindness at my hand. And you will know pain, and service, and humiliation at my hand.” Sam stiffened. “But I have no desire to destroy who you are as a human being, and that is where the difference lies. I would have you find peace, in your servitude.”

 _Peace._ Sam shivered. “Y-yes, _gospodin_.”

There was a gentle squeeze to Sam's shoulder and the hand released him. Sam heard the ruffling of the pages of Castiel's book, and Castiel's thigh shifted slightly under his cheek. Sam snuggled in a little closer – the couch really was terrifically comfortable – and slipped his hand up, touching Castiel's thigh lightly. When no reprimand came, Sam left it there, and some of his tension and fear fell away.

When It did, Sam tumbled into sleep.


	9. Accomodations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are so amazing. Thank you.

_“No, no, please!”_

_Sam's on his knees on cold concrete, struggling, but someone has his arms, and he's being held immobile. His gospodin is before him, smiling that affectionate crooked smile down at him, and strokes a hand through his hair._

_Someone wrenches his head back cruelly, and forces his mouth open._

_“This is simply to help you be good, solnishko. Don't you want to be good?”_

_Sam sees the silver instrument in Castiel's hand, panics, and starts to sob._

_When the first tooth is removed, Sam starts to scream._

 

*

 

Sam woke, screaming and flailing. He could still taste the blood in his mouth.

Someone's warm body was snug behind him, a low grumble, and the arms around him tightened.

Sam clawed at them in his blind panic, not even certain where he was, but filled with the absolute conviction that he _needed_ to get away.

Something muttered from behind him, not English, and the arm not pinned against the bed was grabbed and wrenched up behind him.

Sam barely felt it, tried to yank himself away, and dislocated his own shoulder.

 _That_ he felt, and the pain was blinding when a heavy body crushed him against the bed, pinning him immobile.

“ _Solnishko._ ” Castiel's voice, a low growl against his ear. “Stop. Before you hurt yourself further. Stop.”

Sam stopped struggling, his breath shallow, one cheek smushed into a pillow, his shoulder throbbing agony. He slowly got his wits together, realizing he wasn't in the cell, and still had all his teeth. And if they weren't in the cell, that probably meant that the silver instrument wasn't anywhere nearby. Sam calmed, just a little.

Castiel, feeling the change in Sam's body language, carefully lifted his weight off of him, and muttered what Sam thought might've been a curse.

Castiel rolled over on the bed and turned on a lamp on his bedside table. Sam felt him get up, and watched through one watery eye as he walked naked to the dresser. When Castiel turned back, he had a needle in his hand, and Sam's terror ratcheted up.

Sam tried to move away, but a shift of his arm sent pain rocketing through him, dimming his vision and stopping the breath in his chest.

The prick of the needle was nothing, and the last thing Sam heard was Castiel's sigh.

 

*

 

When Sam woke next, his eyes blinked open, and he was immediately, deeply confused.

He remembered world-ending pain, remembered a mouthful of blood and being crushed against the bed, and yet somehow he was flat on his back, staring up at the canopy of Castiel's bed, and in no pain whatsoever. His arm... he tried to move his arm, and it was somehow strangely immobile. He looked down, and saw an elaborate sling encasing it, keeping his left forearm folded across his chest.

Castiel walked into the room, hair wet, a towel wrapped around his hips.

Sam's eyes shot to him, and his heart rabbited in his chest.

Castiel walked to the side of the bed, ran a gentle hand back through Sam's hair, bent over, and kissed his forehead. Castiel's voice was soft, when he spoke. “Do you remember what happened?”

Sam's tongue sought the spot where his top front canine tooth, on the right, had been removed last night... only to find it still there, still intact. Sam's confusion deepened, and he shook his head, no.

Castiel sat down on the edge of the bed, and rested a hand, warm and soft, low on Sam's abdomen. “You had a bad dream, woke in a bit of a panic, and hurt yourself. The doctor says there won't be permanent damage, but that you must take care, for some time.”

At this point, Sam wasn't entirely sure what had been dream, and what hadn't. He kept his confusion to himself, and settled for nodding his understanding.

 

*

 

Castiel helped him, gently, to remove the sling to shower, and washed him carefully, even kneeling before Sam to do his lower legs and feet. Sam was kind of stunned that Castiel would do something that seemed so... demeaning. But Castiel simply smiled up at him, rinsed him off, dried him carefully and helped him back into the sling.

After having some breakfast – Castiel sharing bites of eggs and toast – he led Sam to the door of the suite. Sam stiffened, frightened, but Castiel simply gave him a squeeze and led him into the hallway, towards the elevator.

To Sam's utter confusion, they passed it by completely, heading further down the long hallway. They passed a number of doors, and towards the end of the hallway, Castiel swiped his keycard against the black box beside one.

When the door opened, sunlight poured through, stinging Sam's eyes. When he was able to see, Sam's jaw dropped again.

They were on some sort of rooftop patio, one with a colossal infinity pool overlooking the beach and ocean several floors below. There was a bar beneath an awning, with several stools before it, and a number of loungers, tables and chairs, some sheltered by colourful umbrellas.

“I did mention that you'd spend your days poolside, when we first met, do you remember, _solnishko_?” Castiel murmured, pressing a kiss to Sam's cheek.

“Y-yes, _gospodin_.” Sam's voice was a whisper, and he turned his face upwards, towards the sun, for the first time in what seemed like forever. The light was brilliantly red through his eyelids. He heard Castiel's soft chuckle.

“I know you'd probably like a swim in the pool, but we mustn't get the sling wet. So for now, we'll get a little sunscreen on you so you don't burn, and try to get some colour into your skin, hmm?”

Sam nodded, and Castiel sat him in one of the chairs, pulling another up in front, quite close to him. Sam sat with his eyes closed as Castiel smoothed the cream over his skin.

It struck Sam quite suddenly, when Castiel's fingers were trailing down the edge of Sam's jaw, that he hadn't shaved in what was probably weeks. Or months. And yet there wasn't any coarse hair – Sam's skin was smooth under Castiel's touch.

As were his underarms. And groin.

Sam remembered the day in the clinic – searing pain and the smell of burnt hair. Whatever they'd done, it was apparently permanent. Sam fought down a surge of nausea at the thought that it was simply one more way they'd modified him. 'Molded' him, Sam was quite sure Castiel would say.

Castiel stood him up and turned him around, and finished applying the sunscreen... everywhere. Sam shivered, despite the warmth and sun beating down on him.

“There. Choose a lounger, lay it flat, and soak up some sunshine, all right? I'll be nearby, if you should need me.” A gentle pat on Sam's rump, and Castiel walked off to the bar, where a deeply tanned young man with sun-streaked hair smiled, and began to mix him a drink.

Sam couldn't fathom what he might need Castiel for. He tottered across the sun-warmed wooden planks, and chose the lounger which was the absolute farthest from the bar. He sat gingerly on it, finding the cushions wonderfully soft. He closed his eyes and lowered it so that he was lying flat on his back, the arm in the sling a little awkwardly positioned, and a just little bit painful.

He jolted when Castiel's voice spoke from directly above him. “That doesn't look right, does it?” The back of the lounger was raised a little, which was much more comfortable on his arm. There was a soft kiss on his forehead, and Castiel withdrew.

Sam let his thoughts wander. He wasn't particularly tired, and didn't much fancy a nap.

He thought about the cell he'd spent so much time in, in the basement. The unrelenting cold, viciously hard cement and even more vicious rape. And yet here he was, relaxing comfortably on a gorgeous patio, the sun seeming to warm every inch of him.

It occurred to Sam that this, too, was a cage – with more brightly gilded bars than his cell, but a cage, nonetheless.

Though it'd have been easy for Sam to turn his head, and see down the length of the beach, he made a conscious choice not to do so. 

 

*

 

The sun was still bright overhead when Castiel gathered Sam up, and helped him back inside. Sam was soft, sun-warmed and comfortable and compliant under his touches. Castiel guided him back into a warm shower, where he rinsed the residue of the sunscreen away, before easing Sam down to sit on the built-in bench.

Kneeling before him, Castiel slicked his hands with body wash, and gave Sam's soft cock some long, gentle strokes, his grip tightening a little as Sam hardened under them.

Sam whimpered and squirmed, desperately not wanting the pleasure, as he knew full well Castiel wasn't going to let him come anyway.

“Hush. Be still.” Castiel's voice was soft, and one hand slid back, towards Sam's hole, pressing against his perineum as Castiel kept up the long strokes that felt so amazing. Sam felt the edge of orgasm approach, as Castiel's slick fingers rubbed over his hole.

Sam fought it with everything he had, not knowing if he'd be punished if he came. But even the fear of punishment wasn't enough to stop him, and his back arched convulsively as he came hard enough that his vision whited out for a moment.

When he came back to himself, Castiel was rinsing the sticky come away, his face neutral. Sam began to tremble, his uncertainty growing. He wasn't sure if that had been a test, or a gift, and if it _had_ been a test, if he had passed or failed, or...

Castiel turned the water off, and helped Sam to dry, before helping him back into the sling. Castiel himself donned sleep pants, but left Sam naked. He guided Sam back through the apartment, and helped him kneel on his cushion, beside the dining room table.

Sam let his head and his gaze drop, not certain if he was waiting for an axe to drop or not. Regardless of what might be coming, silence and obedience were still his best bets.

The chair moved, nearby, and Sam lifted his gaze high enough that he saw his bowl in Castiel's hands, and a spoon resting against the edge.

“It's going to be awkward for you to eat from the floor, with your sling on, and I'd rather you not risk further damage to your shoulder by trying.” Castiel dug the spoon into the food in the bowl, and Sam saw his familiar rice, vegetables, and cubed chicken.

Sam ate and drank what he was given, and then sat silently as Castiel ate his own dinner, which was Thai, unless Sam's nose was failing him. Sam thought about the amazing pad Thai from the hole-in-the-wall restaurant around the corner from his old apartment, and his mouth watered.

Castiel didn't offer him any.

This evening, rather than spending it reading, Castiel led Sam back into his office, and parked Sam on the cushion beside the desk, as he worked on something on his computer.

Sam was still filled with an awful nervous energy, trepidation about what his release in the shower might cost. His fidgeting seemed to annoy Castiel, who passed him a cube, seemingly made of small metal balls. When Sam pulled at one, he found them magnetic, and his eyes widened.

It was the first time since he'd been taken that he'd actually been given something to do that didn't involve sitting prettily on his cushion. He found the balls could be separated into sheets, into different shapes. He made a small house, trying to poke out some of the balls to make windows, but his house collapsed when he did. He made shapes, a pyramid, a hollow cube... until he felt Castiel's eyes on him.

Though he didn't feel any menace, or any anger there, he carefully rearranged the balls back into their original cube, and slipped them back up onto the edge of Castiel's desk, before withdrawing his hands and curling into himself a little, cross-legged on his cushion.

“Did you have a good day today, _solnishko_?” Castiel rolled his chair a little closer to Sam, spreading his legs wide. A gentle hand on Sam's head guided his cheek to Castiel's thigh.

“Y-yes, _gospodin_. T-thank you, _gospodin_.” Sam's voice was small.

“You're welcome. I regret that this evening, I leave for a business trip, and you're not nearly well enough behaved to join me.” Castiel stroked Sam's hair.

Several emotions flashed through Sam's head, faster than he could understand or recognize. Terror, disappointment, worry, loss, indignation... Sam settled on terror, assuming that for the duration of the trip, he'd be back downstairs in his cell.

“You have a room here, in the suite, where you'll stay for the duration of the trip. Ilia will care for you, and see that your recovery is progressing.”

Sam swallowed hard and nodded – he wasn't sure if his 'room' would be, in any way, superior to his cell in the basement.

Castiel closed his laptop with a soft click, and stood, stretching. “Come. Let's get you settled in, hmm?” There was a gentle tug upwards, on the loop on the back of his collar, and Sam climbed to his feet.

Sam kept his eyes shut tight as Castiel led him down the hall, praying to any power that might be listening. There was the gentle _snick_ of a door opening...

“And here we are.” Sam's eyes flickered open, and his heart plummeted.

There was a substantial cage, welded black metal, tall enough for him to sit up in, and to lie down, but not to stand. The bottom was padded, and there was a wedge-shaped cushion in one corner. A soft-looking fluffy blanket was folded, inside it, near the entrance.

Other than the cage, and expanse of dark hardwood, the only other furniture in the room was a very large cushion, square, wide enough for Sam to lay down on and stretch, and a tall, full-length tiltable oval mirror, on wheels. Where every other room seemed to have a massive window, Sam's had a blank wall. There were two doors, on opposite sides of the room. When he glanced up, he saw what he thought might have been a skylight, though it had a black shade drawn across it.

Sam thought he might faint. 

Castiel led him to the door on the right, showing him a compact, yet functional bathroom, complete with supplies. Sam wondered for a fraction of a second if it had hot water. Behind the door on the left was a small storage closet, which contained some built-in shelving. The shelves were barren, save for Sam's small bottle of Leather Honey and cloth, and, of all things, a pad of paper and a box of _crayons_.

Castiel reached into his pocket, and pulled out the cube of magnetic spheres, setting it on a shelf, beside the crayons.

Castiel closed the door softly, and turned Sam back to the main room. “I'm sure that as your time here passes, you'll earn and gather more belongings. Think of this as a beginning. You're to stay in here, until someone removes you. Any words or commands from your caretaker, you _will_ treat as though they came from me. Understood?”

Tears pricked, burning, in the corners of Sam's eyes, and he wasn't entirely sure why. “Y-yes, _gospodin_.”

Castiel levelled a stare at him. “Be aware that if you misbehave, Ilia has full authority to remove you back to the cell, for a length of time proportional to the severity of your transgressions.”

Sam choked, heart hammering. Castiel frowned at him, and began to look progressively more annoyed, until Sam managed to force “Yes, _gospodin_.” from his tight throat, at which point his expression cleared.

“I'll leave you to it, then.” Castiel stroked a hand down Sam's back, and turned to leave the room. 

Sam panicked, and grabbed frantically at Castiel's arm. Castiel allowed it, but raised an eyebrow. Sam estimated he had maybe about five words, or five seconds, before he caught another backhand.

“P-please, _gospodin_ , how... how long...” Sam swallowed hard. “... will you be g-gone for?”

Castiel's disapproval vanished, just like that, and he chuckled. He removed Sam's hand from his arm, but wrapped an arm around Sam's waist and pulled him against his front. A hand on Sam's jaw angled Sam's face down, and Castiel kissed him soundly, before releasing him.

“I'll be back before you know it. Be good.”

There was a distinct _click_ as the door shut behind him, leaving Sam alone.

 

*

 

Sam was sitting cross-legged on a corner of his cushion, with the blanket wrapped around him, and arranging the crayons by order of colour in their box when the door opened, and Sam jolted violently.

It was _Boris_. Sam froze, like a deer in the headlights. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. 

“Use facilities. Brush teeth. Now.” Boris stood in the doorway, scowling down at Sam.

Sam lurched to his feet, dropped the blanket and hurried to the washroom, to do as instructed. When he finished, he peeked around the doorframe at Boris, who had moved to the front of Sam's new cage, and opened the door.

“In.”

Sam forced his shaking legs to take him to the front of his cage, snagging the blanket along the way, before kneeling and hop-crawling into it. The padding really was quite soft, under his hand and knees.

The moment he was in, Boris – whose name Sam supposed was actually Ilia – slammed the cage door shut, and fastened it with a lock. He moved to the washroom, and when he returned, he had a glass of water in one hand, pebbled translucent plastic. Boris crouched, carefully reached between the bars and placed the glass onto a flat metal plate in a corner, set flush with the top of the padding.

Normally, if someone brought him something, Sam would have thanked them. As it was, he watched Boris with wide, fearful eyes.

Boris said not one word as he turned and left. A few moments after he was gone, the light in the ceiling went out.

This time there was only the one small camera in the corner, only the one blinking red LED.

Sam groped in the darkness for his blanket, and made his way to the corner with the wedge. He supposed that he was meant to sleep on his back against it, to keep pressure off of his shoulder and arm. The occasional accidental brushes of his skin against the bars were wretchedly hard and cold.

Sam sorted himself out, and laid there with his eyes closed, but sleep was a very long time coming.


	10. Guests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! *waves frantically*
> 
> I love all of you. Your kind words and generous feedback keep me writing.
> 
> <3

Sam woke to light poking him, hard, in both eyes.

He squinted upwards, and saw that the black shade had indeed been covering a skylight, which was now filled with a perfectly blank square of bright blue sky.

A moment later Boris opened the door, still wearing his default scowl. Sam laid very still, watching him with wary eyes, not knowing whether to expect a beating, or rape...

Boris stalked over to his cage, produced a key, and removed the lock. He stood near the door, waiting, and Sam took that as his cue to crawl tentatively towards, and then through it. Once he was through, Boris crouched beside him, and Sam felt some fumbling on the front of his collar, and heard a soft click.

Boris stood up straight, and Sam caught a glimpse of the leash before it was yanked upwards, hauling Sam to his feet. Sam coughed, and watched Boris wrap the end of his leash around a hard fist. 

Boris hauled him down the hall to the dining area, and forced Sam down onto his knees on his cushion. His leash was dropped as Boris moved to the kitchen, and returned shortly afterwards with the dog food bowl and a spoon. Sam didn't even have to guess to know what was in the bowl, though it seemed there wasn't very much of his usual fare. His food was gone within six spoonfuls. Sam's stomach ached with hunger.

Another yank of the leash to bring Sam to his feet, and he was being pulled back down the hall to his room. 

“Use facilities. Brush teeth.” Boris unclipped the leash from Sam's collar.

Sam hurried to comply, and once he was finished and emerging from his small bathroom Boris was there, reattaching the leash.

Sam tried to fight down the resentment about the leash, about being treated like a wayward dog, as Boris pulled him by the neck from Castiel's suite, and back down the hallway to the patio. It wasn't like he was misbehaving, it wasn't as though the leash was _necessary_. Sam wasn't stupid enough not to comply with what he was told to do, and he certainly wasn't stupid enough to run. He kept his silence as he was yanked into the warm sunshine, the breeze fluttering his hair over his face, and hopefully hiding some of his embarrassed blush.

The feeling of Boris's hands moving over his skin - slick with sunscreen and covering every inch – was nearly as bad as being raped by him.

Sam laid trembling on the lounger afterwards, the sun's rays scant comfort. He forced himself to lie very still, knowing that Boris was still very close by, his fist still wrapped around Sam's leash.

 

*

 

Sam must've fallen asleep, because when he woke, the position of the sun told him it was late afternoon. Boris pulled him up from the lounger and back to the suite, fed him a little more food, and escorted him back to his room.

Boris removed the leash and the sling with surprisingly gentle hands. “Shower.”

Sam did, wincing when he moved his arm the wrong way, and Boris helped him to dry off. After Sam was back in the sling, Boris left, but this time the light stayed on.

Sam carefully pulled his cushion across the floor, rolled up one edge, and laid down, his head directly below the skylight. Sam watched the light fade, wishing he could see something, anything at all... a bird, a tree, anything... but all there was was empty sky.

It seemed indicative of something larger, but Sam wasn't entirely sure what.

Sam was already in his cage, snuggled under the blanket, when Boris returned to lock him in for the night.

 

*

 

Sam's life without Castiel settled into a very simple pattern. He was fed, watered, taken outside for sunshine, and left alone. If he was outside of the suite, he was leashed. Other than Boris's hands covered with sunscreen, nobody touched him, sexually or otherwise.

While it was unquestionably better than his cold cell in the basement, it was... lonely.

Sam had been colouring one evening, trying to capture the colour of the sky though his skylight, when his door opened.

It was Castiel.

“ _Gospodin!!_ ” Sam gasped, climbing to his feet and rushing to Castiel, wrapping his uninjured arm around him, pressing his face into the crook of Castiel's neck, breathing in the warm, comforting scent of his cologne.

Castiel chuckled, wrapped an arm around Sam's waist, and stroked a hand down the back of his head.

“I... I missed you, _gospodin_. So much.” Sam whimpered into Castiel's skin, earning him a contented hum, a squeeze, and a “sweet boy” murmured into Sam's ear.

“I can see why you're fond of this one.” A female voice, light laughter, and Sam froze.

“Giulia, this is Sam. Sam, my colleague, Giulia.”

Sam pried himself off of Castiel, and glanced around the corner of the doorway, and a little down the hall. There was a statuesque woman in the hallway, dark hair and eyes, dressed in a blazer, blouse, and pencil skirt. In her hand was a fine golden chain, attached at the other end to the collar of a naked young man, kneeling at her side, his gaze downcast.

“Giulia and I have business to discuss, so we'll leave you and Jonah to get acquainted, hmm?” Castiel brushed Sam's hair back, and kissed his cheek.

“Jonah? Be friendly, darling. No kissing.” The woman smiled down at her pet, who lifted his face, and smiled upwards at her, and nodded. She ran her fingers through his dark curls, and gently loosened the leash from the boy's collar.

“No kissing.” Castiel echoed, and pulled Sam off of him, guiding him back into his room with hands firm on Sam's upper arms.

Castiel left, and the boy – Jonah – crawled into the room. Castiel gently closed the door after him.

Sam noticed that the other boy was nearly as slender as Sam himself was, his skin much more golden than Sam's own, despite how much sun Sam had been getting lately. Other than the boy's collar – rolled steel – he also had kneepads and a glittering metal cock cage, which drew Sam's gaze despite himself.

Sam wasn't sure what to do, but it felt strange to be standing while the new boy was kneeling, so Sam lowered himself to kneel, as well.

Jonah glanced around the room, took in its meagre furnishings, and turned back to Sam, green eyes wide and curious, over a smile.

“D...d'you want a drink? We... we can sit on my cushion...” Sam hesitated.

Jonah shook his head, and crawled over to Sam's cushion, curling up and beckoning Sam over with a curled finger.

Sam realized he was kneeling gormlessly in the middle of his room, staring at his guest. He knee-walked over to where Jonah was waiting for him, and sat cross-legged in front of him. 

The moment Sam had settled himself, Jonah moved to him, straddling his lap and wrapping arms and legs around him. Sam stiffened, but the boy was clinging to him, hands splayed over Sam's bare back.

Jonah pulled back a little, smiled, winked, and kissed Sam's cheek.

Sam was gobsmacked, but Castiel's rule popped into his head. “No kissing.” 

The boy grinned. He touched a fingertip to his own lips, and then to Sam's, and shook his head, no. He touched the same fingertip to his own lips, and then to Sam's cheek, and smiled and nodded.

“No... no kissing on the mouth.” Sam's brain took a moment to figure it out.

Jonah nodded emphatically, and kissed Sam's other cheek.

“Why... why aren't you speaking to me?” Sam frowned.

Jonah lifted his chin, and pointed to a fine scar on his own throat, about an inch long, perfectly, surgically straight. He lowered his hands, and shrugged, and smiled.

Sam froze, horrified. _They took his voice. Oh my God._

Jonah leaned back in, his lips against Sam's ear, and Sam felt warm breath, and heard the softest whisper. “I can still do this.” There was a little lingering hiss on the 's' sounds.

Sam whimpered, and Jonah hugged him a little closer. There was the low whisper in his ear again. “Be calm. We take what comfort we can. Be calm.”

Jonah held Sam tight until Sam began to relax a little. Sam tentatively reached his free hand around Jonah's back, giving him a squeeze, and Jonah squirmed a little more snugly into Sam's lap, mindful of Sam's sling.

 _We take what comfort we can_. Sam noticed, just behind Jonah, his fluffy blanket. He reached for it, and awkwardly draped it over the two of them, covering their heads.

Jonah reached for it immediately, shifting it so their heads were uncovered, wrapping it around them. “We musn't give them the chance to think we're doing something we're not permitted. Someone is always watching.”

Sam nodded. “Sorry.” His voice was nearly as soft as Jonah's was. Sam pressed a quick kiss to Jonah's cheek, before lowering his face to the crook of Jonah's neck. Just having Jonah in his lap, holding him close... having someone Sam knew wasn't going to hurt him, wasn't a threat - and the simple physical connection of skin on skin... was indescribably comforting.

Sam smiled.

 

*

 

The two boys finally broke their embrace when Sam's legs had fallen completely asleep. Sam rolled around on the cushion, trying to get some feeling back into them beyond pins and needles, and Jonah poked them mercilessly, making an odd huffing noise that Sam assumed had replaced his ability to laugh. Sam tickled him in retaliation, once he could feel his legs again.

The two boys, winded, sprawled on Sam's cushion.

Jonah moved a little closer, snuggling up against Sam's side.

Sam turned his head towards Jonah, and whispered, “Who were you? Before...”

There was absolute silence from beside him, and Sam turned a little more, seeing seething fury on Jonah's face. Sam's heart stuttered. Fast as lightning, Jonah straddled his waist, and pinned Sam's free right wrist above his head in a hard grip.

He leaned down, and hissed through gritted teeth. “There is no _before_. It's foolish to even think of _before_. All you are is what you are _now_. All you have is what you have _now._ ”

Sam listened, frozen, pinned to the cushion.

There was a heavy sigh, next to Sam's ear. When he spoke next, Jonah seemed calmer. “If you dwell on _before_ , you'll drive yourself mad. You'll break yourself before they even have the chance to.” There was a very long pause. The grip on Sam's wrist loosened, and Jonah shifted so that his forehead was pressed against Sam's. When he spoke again, every word was slow and deliberate. Sam could barely hear him. “We take. What comfort. We can. For we know there will be times when there will be none.”

Sam flashed on heavy, hard steel, rough concrete, and unrelenting cold. He nodded, the barest movement of his head.

Jonah lifted his head again, glancing around Sam's room before looking back down at him with serious eyes. “This... this is a _palace_.” 

Sam swallowed hard, and nodded his agreement.

The corner of Jonah's mouth quirked up in a smile.

The door opened. Castiel was in it, with Giulia by his side, his arm loosely around her waist. Jonah sat up slowly, still straddling Sam, his eyes fixed on his mistress's. Sam tried to figure out where his own spike of jealousy came from.

“ _Solnishko_.” Castiel smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Our guests will be staying for a few days, while we hammer out details. Jonah normally sleeps in a cell.” Sam felt Jonah stiffen. “Would you perhaps consider sharing your cage with him?”

“Y-yes! Yes, of course, please, _gospodin_.” Sam jumped to agree, not having any desire to have anyone sent down to the basement, much less his new friend.

“Darling, would you, in turn, be willing to help Sam in the shower, and with his sling?” Giulia's voice was kind. 

Jonah nodded, and left his head bent in a very formal-looking way for a long moment, before slowly raising it. 

“Excellent. Prepare yourselves for bed. Ilia will be in shortly to ensure you're safely tucked in.” Castiel smiled at Sam. Him and Giulia turned and left, closing the door.

Jonah shifted off of Sam, and Sam climbed to his feet, holding a hand out to Jonah, to help him up. Jonah shifted on the cushion, popping the snaps on his kneepads, removing them, and setting them aside. Sam blinked when he saw the interiors seemed to have been custom-molded, to fit his knees exactly.

It seemed to take Jonah an unusual amount of effort to stand. He held Sam's hand tightly when he finally made it. Sam was a full head taller than Jonah, and watched as Jonah's legs shook, simply trying to keep himself upright.

“J-Jonah, w-what...” Sam wasn't sure how to ask what was wrong. Jonah leaned up to whisper in his ear.

“They... it was... some sort of implant, I think. I don't... I don't know how it works, only that it weakens my legs. Not... not completely, or I couldn't walk at all, but just... just enough...” Jonah's whisper trailed off.

 _Just enough to keep him weak. To keep him crippled, and unable to run. Jesus Christ._ Sam tried to shove his horror back down, where no one could see it, but the question bubbled out of him before he could stop it - “But _why_??”

“Mistress prefers me this way.” Jonah's whisper – the cold, factual tone - shut Sam up completely.

Sam gently helped Jonah into the shower. The two boys washed quickly and brushed their teeth. Jonah helped Sam with the sling, and Sam helped Jonah back out to the cage, an arm around his waist, where Boris was standing, waiting.

After they were inside, and the lock closed, Boris entered the washroom, and returned with two glasses of water, setting them side by side on the small metal plate in the corner. He left, and the light went out. Sam was peering at the skylight, trying to see if he could see a star, when there was soft whir, and the black shade was drawn over it.

Sam sighed. Jonah was curled up, waiting for Sam to lie down. Sam did, and Jonah snuggled up against his side, covering them with the blanket and pillowing his head on Sam's shoulder. Jonah laid an arm across Sam's stomach, and squeezed. Sam wrapped an arm around Jonah's back, and held him close.

Jonah's breathing deepened as he slipped into sleep, but Sam lay awake, thoughts whirling. He thought about the things Jonah had said, about the here and the now... and realized he was right. Nothing from before mattered, what mattered was that he was sleeping on a comfortable surface, covered in a soft, warm blanket, and cuddled against a soft, sleep-warmed boy. No cold, no concrete, no rape.

_We take what comfort we can._

Sam closed his eyes, and tried to pretend the bars around him didn't exist.

 

*

 

Sam woke chilled. Jonah had flipped over in his sleep, taking the blanket with him, and was curled into a tight ball. Sam stroked his hair gently, and wondered if maybe whatever had been done to his legs... if it bothered him least when he was curled up. It would certainly explain how Sam had found him sleeping.

 _Or maybe where he usually sleeps is small... like, really, really small..._ Sam shook his head resolutely, shoving his dark thoughts away.

Jonah woke to Sam's gentle touches, and the obvious stiffness, and the winces as Jonah tried to stretch his legs, told him that maybe some part of Sam's musings had been correct.

Sam tried to fight down the flare of fury at whoever it was that had mutilated Jonah. His voice was almost calm when he spoke. “Would... would it help if I rubbed your legs? Or would that just hurt? I wouldn't want...”

Jonah gently closed a hand over Sam's mouth, smiling. He nodded, and flipped over onto his tummy. He stretched his legs out straight, with a soft hiss.

Sam stared down at him. On the backs of his thighs, just under his ass cheeks, there were two small, exactly mirrored incisions, just above where Sam knew the major nerve that runs down the leg would lie. 

Whatever it was, the implant Jonah had described, it seemingly impaired nerve function in some way. And whatever it was, it'd been done surgically, and deliberately. And Sam knew there really, honestly wasn't anything he could do to help Jonah's pain.

It sickened Sam, the thought that somewhere out there, there were surgeons who would mutilate a human being that way, if the person holding the leash had enough money. 

Nevertheless, he stroked a large hand down the back of Jonah's left thigh, and the boy shivered and sighed under the touch. He repeated the action down Jonah's right, smoothly and gently running his palm down the length of the boy's leg. Left, right, left, right... 

Jonah's tension and pain seemed to fade, and he was a melted puddle on the floor of Sam's cage, when the door opened. 

Both boys immediately tensed. It was Boris, and he had some items in his hands. He unlocked the cage door, impatiently shooing the two boys out of it, after Jonah took a few quick moments to put his kneepads back on. He directed them to kneel on the hardwood, near the middle of the room, facing one another.

“You feed that one. Then you eat.” Boris put Sam's bowl, with a spoon in it, in Jonah's hands. And then he dropped some sealed foil packets to the floor, between them, and left.

Jonah stared down into the bowl in his hands, and he froze. Sam could see it was only his rice, vegetables, and chicken, but Jonah was staring at it as though it were something miraculous. Sam wasn't sure he was even breathing. 

There was a long moment where Jonah stared at the bowl, and Sam stared at Jonah, before Jonah closed his eyes, pulled in a shuddering breath, opened them again, and picked up the spoon. Jonah's face was blank as he carefully fed Sam, being absolutely certain to get him every single grain of rice. 

Sam appreciated the effort. Once Jonah had set the bowl aside, he reached for the foil packets. He lined them up before him, on the floor, and stared down at them. He sighed softly.

He picked up the one on the left, and ripped a corner off. Sam tilted his head a little, wondering what it could be. Jonah showed him, squeezing a little of its contents out – it was a very dark green paste. Sam recoiled a little, frowning, but Jonah lifted it to his mouth, squeezing every single drop out of it that he could get, even as his face twisted with the taste of it.

When Jonah opened the second pack, and revealed what looked like jerky, Sam figured out what was going on. The third package contained hardtack, and Jonah nibbled at it listlessly.

“I'm... I'm sorry you have to eat that.” Sam offered tentatively. Sam hadn't even had the faintest idea that not all owners sprang for – or went through the trouble to prepare – fresh food for their pets. Sam drooped sadly, at the thought that maybe Jonah never got to have the luxurious food that Sam took for granted every day. “M-maybe next time, if I ask, _gospodin_ would let you have some of my...”

Jonah shook his head, hard, no. He set the empty packages in the bowl, and set it aside, before tugging Sam over to the cushion, snagging the blanket along the way. He curled up on Sam's lap, and Sam wrapped the blanket around them again.

Jonah began to whisper. “I'm sure your food is delicious. But delicious is pleasure, and pleasure comes only at the hands of Mistress – or under very specific circumstances, such as we have now.” He snuggled in a little closer. “Mistress permits the comfort we both experience here. Which is why we must utilize it as best we can, while it lasts.” Jonah shivered. Sam wrapped him a little tighter with the blanket. 

The two boys has a pleasant, quiet afternoon, in the absence of their owners. They played any game they could imagine, which involved crayons and paper – tic tac toe, SOS, hangman... until Jonah set the crayons aside, and began folding some of Sam's paper into intricate shapes. He made a frog, which really jumped, and which Sam coloured green and gave googly eyes. He folded one piece into something that didn't look like much, but when he held it loosely and blew into one end, it somehow became a hollow, 6-sided cube. He made the requisite crane, and showed Sam how to carefully tear the paper into long strips, and make small, folded paper stars.

Both boys sat and folded the small paper stars for some time. Owing to his arm, Sam wasn't able to finish poking in the edges to make them puffy, but Jonah, who was sitting knee-to-knee with him, was happy to help finish Sam's. By the time both boys tired of them, they had a small pile of them on the cushion between them.

Jonah scooped them up and set them aside. Sam showed Jonah how you could roll the edge of the cushion into a sort of pillow, and they both laid down, face to face, and very close. Jonah reached behind himself for long enough to snag a single star. He turned back to Sam, turning it in his fingers, looking thoughtful.

“They say that if you make a thousand of these, that your wish will come true.” Jonah's eyes moved from the paper star to Sam's. “What's your wish, Sam?”

 _To never be mutilated in the way that you have._ Sam recoiled from his first, horrible gut thought. In the absence of it, he wasn't honestly sure what his wish would be. He thought for a long moment.

He really didn't think that Castiel had it in him to do to Sam what Jonah's Mistress had done to him... and thinking farther back, what Grigori had done to his pet... compared to how the others had been treated, Castiel really had been very kind to him.

Something seemed to settle, inside Sam. Truthfully, there was only one answer, only one wish. “T-to stay with my _gospodin_.”

Jonah smiled at him. “This is a good answer. And mine is, and always will be, that Mistress allows me to stay at her side, to serve.”

Sam frowned. “B-but she...” And a firm hand was clapped over Sam's mouth.

“Surely you can't be that innocent. Surely you know what happens, to most of us, after we outlive our usefulness. And surely you wouldn't malign my Mistress, while she's a guest in your Master's home.” Jonah's eyes hardened.

Sam pulled back a little, freeing his mouth. “I'm... I'm sorry!” Jonah's gaze softened again. “I... I really don't, though... don't know what h-happens when _gospodin_ no... no longer wants me...”

Jonah rolled over onto his back, stretched, and addressed the ceiling. “We hope for a quick death. One bullet to the head, one to the heart. For the unlucky ones, it usually means being sold to a whorehouse, sometimes into hard labour, in places in the world where things like that still exist.”

Sam froze, staring at the boy in front of him. For the life of him, he couldn't fathom how Jonah could talk about this so _calmly_. Jonah glanced over at him, seeing his blank stare.

“This is reality. But you have your _gospodin_ , yes? Your path forward. Your meaning. And I have mine. And my Mistress has promised me a quick death.” Jonah winked and smiled at Sam, who still hadn't moved.

Sam's brain seemed to have jammed. There wasn't any way that Jonah was any older than Sam himself was, and yet he was completely comfortable with his own mortality, with knowing how he was going to die. It was a lot for Sam to wrap his head around.

Jonah moved closer, and wrapped an arm around Sam, seeming to know that Sam was struggling. He didn't say anything further, he just cuddled with Sam, on the cushion on the floor, in Sam's palace.

 

*

 

Several more hours had passed before the door opened again. Both boys had been drowsing, but snapped awake when the door opened. This time, it was Giulia that led the way in, with a smile for her pet.

Jonah struggled to a kneel, his head slightly bowed, his gaze lowered respectfully.

Castiel followed Giulia into Sam's room.

“Come, darling. We've wrapped up our business a little early, and will be heading home soon. Did you have a nice time with your new friend?” Jonah did his nod, followed by the long, still pause, his head and gaze lowered.

Sam got into a kneel, as well, feeling that it was a little more respectful. He kept his head and gaze down.

“Farewell, Castiel.” The woman kissed Castiel's cheek, and murmured a farewell that Sam knew perfectly well wasn't English... and wasn't Russian. Castiel returned it. Sam only had a moment to wonder what the hell it had been, before Jonah and his Mistress were gone.

Castiel walked them out, and then returned to Sam's room, before pulling Sam up and into an embrace.

Sam whimpered, and held onto Castiel with everything he had, with his one good arm, his fist clenched in the back of Castiel's shirt.

Castiel led them to the dining area, feeding Sam before sitting down to his own meal. After he had finished, he turned his chair, and moved so that Sam was kneeling, still on his cushion, between Castiel's spread thighs.

Sam let his head drop a little, as Castiel stroked his hands through Sam's hair. Both of them started talking at once.

“How was...”

“ _Gospodin..._ ” Sam's mouth snapped shut.

Castiel chuckled. “How was your visit with Jonah?”

Sam swallowed hard. “He... he told me a lot...” Sam paused, his anxiety building. Finally, it burst out of him. “ _G-gospodin_ , w-will you g-give me a... a quick death?” Sam inhaled sharply, after the question, trying to swallow back his tears.

One of Castiel's eyebrows quirked up. “Well. You've definitely been talking. I assume your time together has been illuminating.”

Sam whimpered, “ _Gospodin_ , please...” and the first of his tears began to fall.

“Yes, _solnishko_ , hush. Yes.” Castiel's hands smoothed over Sam's hair, over his skin, the touch soothing. “I care for you too much to do anything but. Yes. Though some days you make me question that decision.”

Sam stiffened, but Castiel kept up his gentle touches, and Sam calmed.

Jonah, Sam thought, was right. Sam had his path forward. His meaning. And it was to serve the man who was touching him, right now, with such gentleness. Sam felt as though he'd stepped over some sort of threshold, one from which there wasn't any returning.

And anyway, it wasn't as if Sam had anything to return to.

There was only what he was now, and what he had now.

It was a level of acceptance he never thought he'd feel.

He was safe, in his _gospodin's_ arms.


	11. Perfection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /begin rant
> 
> You know, I don't know how much overlap there is between the readers of this story and the readers of my main work, Sammy's Time at Stanford, but there was something I needed to get off my chest.
> 
> That other work has insane stats, compared to this work. The last chapter alone got over a thousand hits, and went out to nearly 900 subscribers... and got eleven whole comments. Eleven.
> 
> That work is _hard_ to write, but I feel obligated to do so, and then get a pathetic amount of feedback.
> 
> And then I compare it to this work, where the target audience is so much smaller, so much more 'niche'... and I get an _incredible_ amount of feedback from you guys. And it keeps me writing. This one is _fun_ to write, wonderfully twisted and self-indulgent, and you guys are so, so awesome for keeping me chock-full of wonderful, wonderful, kind, generous feedback.
> 
> So thank you guys, so, so much.
> 
> /end rant

The days passed, and Sam's shoulder healed to the point where the sling was no longer necessary. He was glad to finally have it off, even if it did mean that he went back to eating his meals from the bowl on the floor.

Having the sling off also meant that he finally got to enjoy the infinity pool on the rooftop patio. The water was cool and clean and glorious, even if it did mean that occasionally Castiel joined him in it, and occasionally Castiel bent him over in the shallow end and fucked him, under the blonde bartender's neutral gaze.

Castiel permitted him to sleep on his mat near the bed, and even allowed the fluffy blanket from Sam's room to be brought into his bedroom, despite the fact that it clashed with Castiel's otherwise sleek decor. There was even one memorable night that, though Castiel fucked him mercilessly bound to the bed, he also allowed Sam to sleep next to him in it, Sam's head pillowed on Castiel's shoulder.

Sam was getting very good at sitting perfectly still on his cushions, while Castiel conducted meetings, read, and worked on his computer. Castiel seemed to draw peace from Sam's quiet calmness, which Sam imagined he could sense, and it helped reinforce his own sense of security.

One morning, Sam woke on his mat, and yawned and stretched without opening his eyes. When he finally did open them, Castiel was smiling down at him from above the edge of the bed.

“Good morning, _solnishko_.”

“Good morning, _gospodin_.”

The two men got ready for their day, showering, brushing teeth, and in Castiel's case, shaving. Sam tried not to show that twinge of sadness that he felt in his gut as he watched Castiel shave.

“We have another appointment for you today. This one's going to be quite a bit more involved than the last one.” Castiel addressed Sam without bothering to look at him.

Sam's heart lurched. He'd thought the last one had been just about as involved as it was possible to be.

Castiel took his hand and drew him to the walk-in closet. Sam walked numbly in his wake, heart pounding in his chest. Castiel ended up needing to help Sam to dress in the tunic and pants, as Sam was too frightened to help much.

Sam stood hyperventilating as Castiel finished pulling on a very sharp charcoal-grey suit. As he was adjusting his tie, he glanced over at Sam and frowned.

Sam's vision was remarkably grey and dim, for how bright he knew the lights were in the closet. He was quite dizzy, and wasn't entirely certain he wasn't going to fall.

When he heard Castiel's voice, it seemed to come from a fair ways off. “ _Solnishko._ Go sit on the edge of the bed. Now.”

Sam turned, one hand against the wall for balance, and tottered back into the bedroom, and to Castiel's bed. He sat gratefully on it, closed his eyes, and clenched his hands on his own thighs.

Sam was trying to calm himself, to convince himself that whatever was coming couldn't possibly be that bad, when the cool alcohol touched his left shoulder. He knew what was coming, and didn't even flinch under the needle.

Castiel wandered out of the room afterwards, and left Sam there, still gasping shallow breaths, perched on the edge of the bed.

It didn't take long before Sam felt the same effect he'd felt once before – the drug replacing his blind panic with a simple, blank calm. Sam's heart rate and breathing slowed, and he kept his eyes closed. He pondered that the drug kind of made him feel like he was in a completely empty room. There weren't any doors or windows, just a soft sort of light and the plain walls, painted in a very light grey that he'd last seen on a pigeon's belly.

There was a gentle caress on his cheek. “Better, _solnishko_?”

Sam turned his face into Castiel's hand, nuzzling his palm, and nodded. He stopped fairly quickly, as it made him a little dizzy. “Y-yes, _gospodin_.”

“Sweet boy. Come.” A gentle tug on Sam's hand, and Sam followed.

He kept his eyes closed as Castiel led him, feeling carpet under his feet, and then the cool elevator tiles, and then rough concrete. He opened them as Castiel guided him into the limo, so as not to bonk his head on the doorframe.

A short trip, Sam snugly tucked between Castiel's legs.

Sam opened his eyes again as they got out – it was the same building he'd been modified in last time.

It was a truly peculiar sensation, to be walking so calmly along in Castiel's wake, knowing that terror ought to be clawing at his insides, that he ought to be running, to be screaming for help. Instead, he simply followed where he was led.

The same walk through the same halls, Sam's hands limp, Castiel's grip on his wrist firm, but not harsh. The same treatment room, the same large machine, already humming.

Castiel stripped him and strapped him into the treatment chair. He pulled the visitor's chair up beside Sam, and stroked a hand through his hair.

“Several things will be happening today, dear one. You'll be given some choices, and I trust you'll choose the ones which will make me happiest, hmm?”

Sam returned Castiel's smile, unperturbed. He wasn't certain how he was supposed to know which choices would be the right ones, but trusted that in the end it'd work out.

“Some of them you'll have to be unconscious for, as we wouldn't want you endangering yourself by moving. You know that I'll be certain you're safe, hmm?”

Sam nodded, believing him absolutely.

The door opened, and the tall, tattooed man walked in, carrying his kit, smiling and greeting Castiel. They had a short conversation, conducted entirely in Russian.

“All right, dear one. First choice, hmm?” Castiel returned the chair back to its spot near the wall, and moved back to Sam's side, kissing his forehead. “Labret piercing, or snakebite piercings?”

Sam blinked up at him. Honestly, he didn't want any sort of piercings at all. But even from under the drug, he wasn't stupid enough to tell Castiel that.

He knew what the options meant, and knew he was being asked one lower lip piercing, or two. Sam swallowed hard. He tried to force his brain into telling him which the right answer was. Slowly, he stumbled through the logic that Castiel seemed to love to modify him, so the more modified (' _molded_ ') he was, the happier Castiel would be.

“S-snakebites, p-please, _gospodin_?” Sam asked tremulously.

Castiel's smile down at him was radiant, and Sam let himself melt against the embrace of the chair. He stayed that way as the tattooed man approached him, straightening his head, and making small dots on his skin with a marker, below the lower edge of his lower lip. Castiel nodded, and Sam stiffened again when the man approached him with a large hollow needle.

Surprisingly, whatever was in the shot he'd been given seemed to have some sort of anaesthetic quality, because Sam felt a bit of a pinch, but nothing more as the two piercings were completed. Afterwards, Sam ran his tongue over the flat back-plates of the two studs now piercing his lower lip, tasting steel and blood.

“Beautiful. Excellent choice. Now, _solnishko_ , a septum piercing or a nostril piercing?” Castiel smiled down at him.

Sam sincerely didn't want either. But he'd always found septum piercings vaguely repulsive – he thought they made people look like bulls, with rings through their noses. This choice Sam didn't make for Castiel – he dared to make it for himself. He figured he had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right.

“Nostril, please, _gospodin_...” Sam half-asked, half-begged.

Another smile like sunshine down at Sam, and he heaved a shaking breath.

He closed his eyes, and kept them that way through the pinch of the needle.

“Ah, but you're beautiful, _solnishko_.” Castiel murmured, and Sam felt a tender kiss on his forehead.

Sam couldn't even imagine what was beautiful about him, with what felt like a half a dozen pieces of shrapnel in his face, all throbbing dully.

“A couple more now, okay? Non-negotiable.”

Sam kept his hands clenched on the armrests as both of his earlobes were pierced, and then the cartilage on the upper curve of his left ear. The final one hurt, and Sam winced under the needle.

There was silence, a pause, coolness on his left shoulder again, and another shot. A few minutes passed.

Sam barely felt the cartilage piercing on the right ear, mirroring the one on his left. He sagged back against the chair once it was done, breathing a little heavily, hoping that they were done.

“One more, dear one. Also non-negotiable. A tongue piercing, to improve your ability to please me orally. Your skills to date have been serviceable, but unremarkable. Open your mouth.”

Sam clenched his jaw very briefly, feeling a stab of resentment that Castiel still didn't think his blowjob skills were up to snuff. But he'd also received blowjobs from guys with tongue piercings himself, and it had been universally awesome. Sam opened his mouth obediently. A slight pinch, and only a little blood – Sam had honestly expected more, he'd heard tongue piercings bled like the dickens.

After, Sam was trembling a little, and each and every one of his new piercings hurt in an abstract sort of way.

Castiel seemed to be giving him a few moments, running a gentle hand through Sam's hair, over and over again. The touch was very soothing, and gradually Sam's trembling stopped.

“You've done so well, _solnishko_. So, so well. I'm proud of you. I think for the rest we'll put you under. I think you've been through quite enough for now.” Castiel smiled.

Sam watched him with wide, fearful eyes as there was another stinging injection in his shoulder. The last thing he saw was brilliant blue staring back at him, before the darkness took him.

 

*

 

Sam woke abruptly. The first thing he was aware of was that he was on his back, on Castiel's bed, and the second thing was that _everything_ hurt.

First and foremost, it seemed as though every single inch of his skin was hot and throbbing... the sort of aftermath he'd remembered from the burnt-hair smelling treatment, courtesy of the young ladies and the large, humming machine.

Every single inch. His arms and legs, chest, back, groin, underarms, face, ass... _everything_.

Sam swallowed down his surge of horror at the thought that now it seemed as though his entire body would be completely hairless – like a Ken doll.

He shifted a little, and became aware that he had snug boxer-briefs on, which felt oddly padded in the crotch, and his cock hurt, underneath the padding. He frowned, not having the faintest idea what that was about.

He lifted his hands to his eyes, rubbed, and recoiled in pain, yanking his hands away. Something was wrong with his eyes... he touched again, gently, feeling heat and swelling. Again, he didn't have a clue what was happening.

Castiel entered the room, smiling at him, still in the suit he'd worn to the clinic.

Sam knew he wasn't permitted to speak, but he desperately needed to ask what the _hell_ was going on. “ _G-gospodin_...” Sam's pronunciation was slurred, his tongue swollen and painful in his mouth.

Castiel raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn't respond.

Sam tried to pluck up the courage to continue. It took him some effort to make the words comprehensible. “W-what... what's... what happened? After... after I was k-knocked out?”

Castiel walked to the edge of the bed and sat on it, resting a gentle hand against Sam's bare thigh. Even the gentle touch made the pain spike.

“Full-body laser hair removal, including a re-do of the areas previously done. It was laborious, and time-consuming, and I spared you the pain of having to suffer through it.”

Sam's voice was strangled, when he managed to make it work. “T-thank you, _gospodin_.”

“Some tattoos, around your eyes and one near your mouth. A prince albert piercing.”

Sam's mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“Ilia has the care schedule for your tattoos and piercings. I leave soon for another trip, and this time, though you're better behaved now, you'll look a bit of a mess until everything has calmed down and healed.” Castiel smiled. “After that, of course, you'll be gorgeous. Perfect.”

Sam couldn't even figure out what he wanted to say, but all of the sensations, the underwear, the pain around his eyes... all of it made sense now.

 _Tattoos._ Sam shuddered, terrified of what sort of ink Castiel had put into his skin this time – and on his _face_.

“Would you like to see your new look, such as it is at the moment?”

Sam's throat was too tight to speak. He didn't even honestly know what he wanted. He thought, though, that the sooner he saw how bad it was, the sooner he could start coming to terms with having to live with it. He forced himself to nod.

Castiel left the room for a moment, and returned with the small circular mirror from the bathroom. He pulled the curtains wide, flooding the room with sunlight, before passing Sam the mirror.

Sam held it up, his eyes closed and his heart hammering, before forcing himself to open his eyes.

The first thing he saw was the bright-red skin, followed by the two diamond-stud piercings in his bottom lip. There was a small, perfectly round black beauty mark near the corner of his mouth, on the right hand side. The tiny diamond in the side of his nose caught his eyes, before he managed to force his gaze a little higher.

The hazel and whites of his eyes were bright and stark against the tattoos. They had been designed to look like eyeliner, artfully smudged, ringing the edges of his top and bottom lids. Even his waterlines had been done.

Sam full-body shuddered. He wasn't sure who the man in the mirror was, but it certainly wasn't him. His eyes filled with tears, which made them burn and sting, and his skin seared when they fell. He wanted to beg Castiel to undo everything that'd been done to him, but it was _permanent_ , and entirely, _exactly_ what Castiel wanted. Sam lowered the mirror, and Castiel took it from him.

“Like I said, you'll be a bit of a mess until you heal a little. No need to cry.” Castiel gently brushed Sam's tears away, but they kept on falling. Sam stared blankly at the ceiling, through the sheer black fabric of Castiel's canopy. “You know that today, you made wonderful choices. Now, you're so much closer to being perfect for me, hmm? Don't you want to be perfect for me?”

Of _course_ he wanted to make Castiel happy, but at what cost?? Sam was heartbroken, heartsick, and simply didn't have the strength right now to try to keep his suffering to himself. His tears fell a little harder.

Castiel sighed, and moved away. A few moments later, he drew near again.

“Thank me for making you perfect, sweet boy.”

Another brush of cool alcohol against his shoulder, another sting of an injection.

Sam clenched his eyes shut, and forced his words out. “Thank you for m-making me p-perfect, _gospodin_.” 

Something twisted inside Sam's heart, and shattered. He was pathetically grateful to feel unconsciousness pulling at him, and surrendered to it gladly.


	12. Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much. Your kind and generous feedback keeps me writing.
> 
> Thank you.

Sam's life this time around settled into a very similar pattern, with Castiel away on his trip. Boris took care of him, fed and watered him, and spent what Sam frankly thought was too much time cleaning and caring for his piercings and tattoos. It was hard for Sam to sit still under his touches, and Sam rapidly grew to actively dislike the smell of the gentle antiseptic cleaner Boris favoured.

Sam also thought he'd rather deal with an infection than deal with the number of times a day Boris made him rinse his mouth with salt water.

This time around there weren't any trips outside. Sam figured it had something to do with the laser treatment – maybe his skin was too sensitive for the sunlight right now. It certainly _felt_ sensitive – bizarrely smooth where he'd always had hair.

Sam wasn't certain how long Castiel was gone for, but it seemed a very long time. Long enough for him to notice the frequency of Boris's enforced cleanings drop substantially, for the swelling and redness he saw in the mirror every day to fade into pale skin and stark ink.

Sam couldn't manage to get used to seeing the ink on his face. If anyone had asked his opinion, guyliner and a beauty mark wouldn't have made it onto his list. He grudgingly admitted that the ink around his eyes did make them stand out, the mottled hazel and whites stark and bright.

The beauty mark, on the other hand, made him uneasy, and he wasn't quite sure why. He knew that it was likely that most, if not all of Castiel's extensive ink bore meanings. The elaborate stars on Castiel's chest, near his shoulders – Sam thought they somehow denoted rank, though he wasn't sure. And Sam couldn't shake the thought that maybe the beauty mark near his mouth denoted something, too... though there wasn't any way it could be good.

Sam spent endless hours in his room, doodling, drawing, and colouring. He tore the narrow strips of paper to make the little puffy stars, and discovered that he could use his crayons to make them different colours. He made enough (236, the last time he counted) that he had a substantial pile of them on one of his shelves.

Boris entered his room the one time with a large wooden bowl, like a big salad bowl. He used an arm to sweep all of Sam's stars into it, and panic flared in Sam's heart that he was going to take them away. He didn't, though, and simply set the bowl on the shelf, where the stars had been.

Sam was careful to keep all of his stars tidily in the bowl, after that.

 

*

 

Sam had made his thousand stars, and made his wish, and his _gospodin_ still didn't return.

Every day, despite Boris's intermittent care for him, Sam grew a little more lonely. He stopped doodling, and drawing, and colouring. He sat on his cushion, running a listless finger through his sea of paper stars, inside the bowl.

The sky was darkening through the skylight above him, and Sam's thoughts darkened, too. What if Castiel wasn't coming back? What if he was going to spend the rest of his life in this room, sleeping in a cage, eating from bowls on the floor?

A surge of fury rose in Sam. He grabbed his bowl of stars and threw it as hard as he could at the wall. The bowl cracked in half, and the stars flew everywhere. Sam sat, numbly, staring at them strewn across the dark hardwood.

The door opened moments later, and Boris entered, scowling. He stalked to Sam, and Sam tried to scramble away from him. Boris caught Sam's upper arm in a viciously hard grip, hauled him to his feet, and yanked him towards the doorway.

Sam panicked, and tried to writhe out of Boris's grasp. “S-sir! P-please!”

“Shut. Up.” Boris hauled him to the door of the suite, and unlocked it with a keycard.

Sam started to hyperventilate, and wrapped his fingers around Castiel's doorframe, trying with all his might not to be pulled from the suite. Boris yanked his grasp free with embarrassing ease. He rammed his fingers inside the back of Sam's collar, making a hard fist and choking Sam, as he pulled Sam down the hall to the elevator.

Sam couldn't get any air in or out, and so couldn't beg Boris for forgiveness.

Sam's air ran out as they reached the basement level, and the soft 'ding' of the elevator was the last thing Sam heard.

 

*

 

When Sam fought his way back to consciousness, the first thing he was aware of was cold, rough concrete underneath him, followed rapidly by the press of heavy steel against his neck, wrists and ankles.

 _No, no no no no no, please, no..._ Sam kept his eyes closed tight, hoping against hope that he wasn't back in his cell. When he managed to force his eyes open, his heart fell through the floor.

Everything was _exactly_ as it had been. The soft-looking bed with its fluffy linens, the dark wood furniture, the bathroom nook. The cold.

 _”Ilia has full authority to remove you back to the cell, for a length of time proportional to the severity of your transgressions...”_

Sam's lip trembled as he fought not to cry. He couldn't _believe_ he'd been stupid enough to break the bowl he'd been given, to allow his anger to run away from him, even if it was only for a moment.

He didn't even want to _think_ about how long of a stay in the cell his foolishness was going to cost him. He knew, logically, that it was just a stupid bowl, and he suspected the punishment might have more to do with the anger than anything else.

Sam curled up, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. He rested his forehead on his knees, and his head jerked up when the door opened.

It was Boris, and he had a young woman with him, wearing scrubs and bearing a plastic carryall, filled with medical supplies. Sam's heart stopped.

“P-please. S-sir.” Sam trembled on the floor, but didn't try to run.

“Shut. _Up._ ” Sam hadn't even seen the muzzle in Boris's hand. Boris hauled him to his feet, and fastened a length of chain from the back of his collar to a ring high on the wall, forcing Sam to stand up straight or be choked.

The young woman turned to him, and she had blue vinyl gloves on, and was holding a long length of plastic tubing, which glistened with some sort of gel, near the end of the tube. Sam pressed his back as hard as he could against the wall behind him as she approached him.

“Relax,” she instructed, and lifted the tube up, towards his nose. Sam turned his head away, but Boris was right there with a vicious hand in his hair, forcing his head straight again.

Sam froze as she pushed the tube into his right nostril, and kept on pushing. Sam felt it at the back of his throat, moving downward, and fought not to gag.

“Swallow.” Sam did, over and over again, and she pushed more and more of the tube inside of him. 

When she had it positioned to her liking, she taped the tube to Sam's cheek. She used a syringe to pull what Sam assumed was the contents of his stomach up the tube, and capped it with nimble, clever fingers.

As she turned to leave, Boris moved in with the muzzle. He wasn't nearly as gentle with the straps and buckles as the girl had been with her... whatever it was.

“You are spoiled. Ungrateful. You see how other side has it now, yes?” Boris stared him down.

Sam managed a hesitant nod, feeling the tube shift in the back of his throat. Boris loosened the chain at the back of his neck, and pressed down on Sam's shoulder until he sat on his butt on the concrete. Then the chain was back, allowing him to sit, slumped a little, but not to lie down.

“Piss in direction of grate.” Boris turned and left, the door closing behind him with an echoing bang.

Sam let his head droop, as much as the collar and chain allowed, and couldn't stop his tears.

 

*

 

It seemed as though a long time had passed, before the door opened again. Sam's head shot up, his cheeks and the leather of the muzzle crusted with tears. 

It was Boris, and he held two large syringes – minus the needles – filled with some sort of off-white liquid.

Boris didn't bother to explain what he was doing, but Sam figured it out pretty quickly. He felt his stomach fill as Boris pushed the contents of the syringes into it. He kept his eyes closed throughout the process, and didn't even open them as he heard Boris leave.

Once he was gone, Sam was feeling pathetically sorry for himself. He wished with all of his might that he could take back his moment of anger, shove it down somewhere deep inside, where no one could see it. That somehow he could un-break the bowl, and magic all of the stars back into it.

Sam was exhausted. He slumped against the wall, only to be choked by the steel collar. He reached up a tentative hand to the back of it, where it was attached to the chain, brailling out a simple steel carabiner, which would have been dead simple to remove, to allow him to lay down, to get some rest...

Sam clenched his hand into a tight fist, and lowered it to his lap, gripping it resolutely with his other hand. He resigned himself to a long, sleepless night, with the wretched muzzle and the ghastly tube down his throat. 

 

*

 

Sam jolted out of an exhausted, disorienting half-sleep when his door opened. Dark dress pants entered his field of view, before the owner of them crouched in front of him.

Sam forced his blurry gaze upwards... it was _Castiel_. Sam would have whimpered with relief, if it had been possible for him to.

When Castiel spoke, his voice was soft. “Is this what you want, Sam? To be treated like the other animals down here?”

Sam's mind whirled. There were others, _multiple_ others, being treated like this, in the basement of Castiel's compound?! Sam fought down his nausea, and shook his head, no. It made him dizzy.

Castiel lifted a gentle hand, and brushed Sam's hair back from his face. “I was under the impression that you were my sweet boy.”

Sam forced a tiny, hurt sound out through his nose, and nodded. _I am!!_

“And yet you had a _moment_ , and broke something which did not belong to you.”

Sam lowered his head, blushing, and closed his eyes. _Please, I'm so sorry, please..._

Castiel reached behind Sam's collar, freeing him from the wretched chain. “I'm sure you're deeply regretful for your actions, hmm?”

Sam hauled in a shuddering breath through his nose, nodding shakily. _So, so sorry._

Castiel stood, his knees creaking. “Show me.”

Sam froze for a heartbeat, before shifting into a kneel. _Abasement. He wants utter abasement. Do it._ Sam shuffled forwards a little, so that he was right in front of Castiel. He didn't dare look up, and bent over, uncomfortably crunched, until his forehead was against the concrete between Castiel's polished shoes, his palms pressed against the floor as well, not daring to actually touch him.

There was dead silence from above him, and Sam wasn't sure what to do. His terror ratcheted up, and he began to rock, just a little, pushing his hands harder against the floor, in an attempt to stop himself from grabbing Castiel and never letting go.

“All right. That's enough.” Castiel's voice was neutral.

Sam dared to sit up a little, moving his hands to grip his own thighs, keeping his gaze downcast.

“You promised me once before that if I took you upstairs, we wouldn't have any problems. Which makes you a liar.” There was a long pause, during which Sam hyperventilated and shook. “You make a convincing argument, though, that I ought to give you one more chance.”

_OhGodplease, please please please..._

“Trust that my patience with you is at an end, however. Your next trip to this room will have no returning. And I rescind my promise of a quick death.”

Sam's vision greyed out, and his heart stuttered in his chest. Terror swamped him, staring down the barrel of a life of brutal torture and slavery... 

Sam wasn't even aware that Castiel had sat him back up, had removed the steel restraints and the muzzle with gentle fingers. He blinked his way back into awareness as Castiel was carefully lifting the tape against his cheek, and he coughed and gagged violently as Castiel smoothly and slowly pulled the tube back out through his nose.

After it was out, Castiel pulled Sam to his feet, and wrapped him a gentle hug. Sam was too heartsick, too exhausted and broken to do anything but cry against Castiel's shoulder. Castiel stroked hands up and down Sam's back, but Sam was inconsolable. 

“Hush, hush, dear one.” Castiel soothed. “Come, let's get you back upstairs and into a warm bath, hmm?”

Sam shuddered, remembering the first time he'd been in the cell, and Castiel offering him that. This time, he couldn't stop his sobs.

Castiel sighed and scooped him up, carrying him from the cell, and back up to the suite, Sam crying the entire way. When they were back in Castiel's bedroom, he set Sam on the edge of the bed. Castiel fixed a shot, and Sam, even through his heartbreak, was grateful for it.

Castiel was on his knees before Sam, soothing Sam's swollen eyes and red nose with a cool, damp cloth as the shot settled over him. Sam managed to pluck up his courage, and spoke.

“Y-you might as well just get rid of me now.” Sam sniffled. Castiel was silent. “I... I c-can't be perfect for you. Y-you m-might as well just s-sell me.”

Castiel sighed. “I could never. You belong with me. What I said just now... I said in anger, and I didn't mean it. I'm sorry.”

Sam's breath hitched in his chest, and he dared a glance upwards, to Castiel's face. Castiel was watching him with serious eyes.

“I could never sell you, or give you away. You're too precious to me. Too perfect.”

Sam was deeply confused. Nothing he'd done recently had been perfect, in any way.

“I left you for too long. Though I have a life outside of you, I'm your whole life, aren't I?” Castiel's mouth quirked up into a crooked smile.

Sam's mouth opened, but he wasn't sure what he wanted to say. It took him a long moment. “I... I didn't think you were coming back, _gospodin_ ,” Sam admitted, in a whisper.

“Ah. Then I can understand your frustration.” Castiel leaned forward, and kissed Sam soundly, before pulling back again. “Kindly do not break any more of my belongings. While I won't sell you, I'm not above punishing you.”

Sam nodded and blushed, staring back down at the floor. “I really am sorry, _gospodin_.”

“Yes, you made that amply clear. Thank you. Now come, a quick bath, and then a bit of a rest, hmm?”

Sam moved woodenly through the steps Castiel laid out for him – a warm bath, his leather restraints back, to lie down on his mat and close his eyes gratefully. There was the soft _clink_ of the chain being attached to his collar, and a warm kiss on his forehead, and Sam tumbled into sleep.


	13. Celebration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thanks to everyone who pointed out that Chapter 12 "Stars" posted twice.  
> I posted it the first time, and got an error indicating that I didn't have authorization to modify the work.  
> I was like, "uh, if I don't have authorization, then who, exactly, does??"
> 
> But this one isn't a double-post. 
> 
> Sorry about this.

Sam woke to Castiel staring down at him from the above the edge of the bed.

“You're beautiful, _solnishko_.” That same crooked half-smile.

“T-thank you, _gospodin_. Good morning.” Sam blushed and rubbed at his eyes. 

“Good morning to you, as well.” Castiel got up, loosened Sam's chain, and helped him to his feet. The two men moved to the washroom to ready themselves for the day.

Sam was scrubbing shampoo through his hair when Castiel, who had already showered, joined him in the spacious shower, pressing the length of himself up against Sam's back. One hand moved to grip Sam's hip, and the other moved to Sam's cock.

Sam's breath hitched and he froze as Castiel stroked his cock with one hand, and moved the other to Sam's hole. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the sensation of the new ring of his piercing moving against and inside him, under Castiel's hand. 

“I want you to come while I'm inside you.” Castiel murmured into Sam's ear, nudging Sam's legs apart a little with a foot.

Sam let his head drop, trembling, and braced his arms against the end of the shower enclosure, water pouring over his head, and down his front and back. Sam didn't particularly want to get fucked, nor to come – but he also didn't get a vote. He dipped his lower back, which earned him a pleased hum from Castiel.

Sam cursed his traitorous body as he hardened despite himself, under Castiel's expert touches. He couldn't stop his groan as Castiel slid inside him.

 _Just a john..._ somehow the thought was a little tenuous, inside his head.

Sam let his thoughts wander, as Castiel pounded into him from behind, careful to maintain the perfect arch to his lower back. He couldn't deny that it felt good – there had been times it had felt good in his alley, as well. Sam considered himself vers – he derived pleasure from both roles, and it was easiest to make money when you could accommodate whatever it was that your client wanted.

Castiel's hand had stilled on his cock, seemingly forgotten as he chased his own pleasure in Sam's body. Sam could feel that tightening, letting him know he was close, but he was going to need a little more stimulation to actually come. Sam dared to lower one of his hands to his own cock, touching Castiel's hand gently, and Castiel smacked his hand away, before gripping and stroking Sam's cock tightly.

“Keep your hands on the fucking wall.” Castiel grated out, his panting breaths harsh and hot against the back of Sam's neck.

Sam raised his hand back up, pressing both of them hard against the wall as Castiel stroked him, his eyes clenched shut, feeling that peak of pleasure rise within him.

He came a few moments later with a choked gasp, splattering the tiles, clenching down hard against Castiel's cock.

A short, muttered phrase from Castiel, not in English, and Castiel pounded him through it and out to the other side, where Sam shook and whimpered. He let go of Sam's cock in favour of grabbing Sam's hips brutally, bruisingly hard, slamming into him a dozen more times before coming himself, yanking Sam against him as he spilled inside him.

Sam was utterly still as Castiel's heaving, panting breaths slowed and normalized. Still as Castiel withdrew his softened cock from Sam's hole. Still as Castiel stepped back out of the shower, reaching for a towel. Still as Castiel's come slipped down his inner thighs.

“Finish your shower, sweet boy.” Castiel sounded a little worn out.

Sam did as he was told.

 

*

 

Sam was on his cushion beside Castiel's desk as Castiel worked, when the door to the office opened. Sam's eyes flickered open, to see an older gentleman with a rumpled topcoat and a heavy-looking briefcase.

Castiel stood and moved around Sam to clasp hands with the man, and hug him briefly, before returning to his desk as the man sat. Sam heard the clicks of the briefcase opening, and could see the back of the lid, but couldn't see what was inside of it. He closed his eyes again, assuming that it had nothing to do with him, as every other one of Castiel's meetings did.

A gentle touch on the back of his neck a few moments later startled him.

“ _Solnishko_. Up, please, on your knees.” The gentle hand on the back of Sam's neck guided him to kneel up, and the older man was looking at him in an appraising fashion. It made Sam's heart stutter in his chest.

Castiel and the man conversed softly in Russian, as the man withdrew a soft cloth measuring tape from his case, and shifted his chair towards Sam.

Sam's breathing was fast and shallow as the man took measurements of Sam's body. From his nose ring to his earlobe, around his neck, his wrists and ankles, across his shoulders, around his waist, collar to navel, and several from the front of his collar to some of the rings on his back. 

After the man was done with his measurements, Castiel pressed down on Sam's shoulder, and Sam sank back down on his cushion, lowering his head and his gaze. Castiel and the man conversed for a short while longer, before the man closed up his case and took his leave.

Castiel didn't offer any sort of explanation about what the whole thing had been about, and of course Sam didn't ask.

 

*

 

Several peaceful, quiet days passed. Castiel took Sam out onto the patio a number of times, to enjoy the pool and the warmth of the sunshine against his skin, after removing his cuffs and collar.

Sam still felt that strange vulnerability without them, but without them his tan developed uniformly golden and unmarred by bands of pale skin. And afterwards, Castiel was always gentle with resecuring them on Sam. It grew to be a part of the day that Sam looked forward to – the time where Castiel reconfirmed his caring, his claim, and his ownership.

Sometimes, in the deepest corners of his heart, which would never see the light of day – sometimes Sam dared to think that Castiel loved him.

Sam himself wasn't entirely sure what he felt for Castiel... he knew that logically he ought to hate the man who had tortured him, imprisoned him, enslaved him, and raped him regularly. But Castiel was also so very kind and gentle with him, reassuring Sam of his beauty and perfection... generous with his praise when Sam met his expectations.

Jonah's whispered words ran often through Sam's head. What he was before, what he'd had before and what was taken from him... it all faded into static in the back of his head, as he knelt on his soft cushion on the floor near Castiel's feet, Castiel's hand stroking gently through his hair.

No cold steel, no rough concrete. Sam hadn't done anything since the incident with the bowl to warrant punishment.

The days passed, and Sam and Castiel settled into an uneasy sort of domesticity. Uneasy, because Sam was always afraid he'd do something to upset Castiel.

Sam watched through disinterested eyes as several maids were in and out of the suite over the course of a couple of days, doing what seemed to be an unusually thorough cleaning of it, top to bottom. Sam didn't bother to spare the energy to wonder why it was being done.

He was just grateful that Castiel hadn't dressed him up in a little maid's outfit, and given him a feather duster.

Late one afternoon, Sam could tell that dinner was unusually early, simply form the positions of the shadows on the floor. Once he had finished his bowl of food, and Castiel had cleaned his face and set the dishes aside, he forced Sam into a kneel and pulled him snugly between his thighs. Sam went willingly.

“ _Solnishko._ Tonight I'm hosting a party, for some very important people.” A gentle hand stroked through Sam's hair. “You've been so very good, and I'm looking forward to showing you off to some of my colleagues.”

Sam's blood froze. He stopped breathing. Castiel seemed not to notice, keeping up his gentle touches.

“You'll be wearing some new, special cuffs, and a harness which was made specifically for you. There's not another one like it in the whole world.” Sam dared a glance upwards, and saw Castiel smiling down at him. “You'll be following me one step behind me, and slightly to my left. You'll keep your eyes down.”

After a very long pause, Sam managed to pull in a shuddering breath. “Y-yes, _g-gospodin_.” He knew he was going to screw something up. He just _knew_ it. The thought made him tremble.

Castiel framed Sam's face in his hands, and forced Sam to tilt his face up, to look at Castiel. Castiel must've seen Sam's fear, because he sighed softly, before leaning down to give Sam a gentle kiss. “You'll be fine. My sweet boy. My little prince.” Castiel smiled down at him.

Nothing Castiel did or said calmed Sam's fears in the slightest.

 

*

 

The man with the briefcase entered the suite, a few minutes later, as Castiel was finishing removing Sam's leather cuffs and collar.

Castiel guided Sam to his room, and stood him in front of the oval mirror, as the man opened his case, and began withdrawing packages from it.

First were two rolled metal wrist cuffs, brushed and silvery in colour, followed with a matching pair for his ankles. There were earrings with chains which looped from the tops of his ears to his earlobes, and one which draped from his nostril piercing to his earlobe, on the right-hand side. It tickled Sam's cheek. The collar came next – a series of silver rings that forced Sam to keep his chin up, fastened and braced at the back, so as not to interfere with the aesthetic from the front. On the bottom edge of the bottom ring, closest to his collarbone, there were five tiny metal loops on the left, and a matched set of five on the right.

Sam breathed as shallowly as he could, as a fine silvery chain was clipped to the left hand side of the collar, fastened to one of the tiny loops, draping diagonally down and across his chest, to be fastened to one of the rings on his back, on the right-hand side.

Several more were draped, ten in all, so that he had an interlocking diamond of criss-crossed chains in the middle of his chest, which fell in graceful, concentric arcs, wrapping around his sides to be secured by the rings on his back. The highest draped on his ribs, and the lower ones hugged his waist, stopping just above his hips.

When the chains were situated, Sam let his gaze lift high enough to see Castiel's eyes in the mirror – and Castiel looked stunned. He walked directly behind Sam, and his hands hovered above the chains framing Sam's waist. Sam saw Castiel's hands trembling.

“Ivan, you've outdone yourself. This is beautiful.” Castiel's voice was a little rough. His hands lowered, gripping Sam's hips, below the drape of the lowest chain.

The man chuckled, and when he answered Castiel, it was in Russian.

It seemed to take Castiel some effort to lift his hands from Sam's skin, but he managed, turning and shaking the man's hand with both of his own, before pulling him into a hug. 

The man saw himself out.

Once he was gone, Castiel guided him with careful hands to the washroom, and encouraged him to use it.

“We'll keep your fluid intake low tonight. You'll be wearing a cock cage with a plug, and I don't want to have to leave my guests, just to help you in the washroom.”

Sam's eyes widened, and he wasn't sure what part of that sentence frightened him the most.

Castiel urged him to perch on the edge of the bathroom vanity afterwards, and pulled on some vinyl gloves. From one of the drawers, he produced some sterile lube packets and alcohol wipes, and from another, a black satin-covered box.

When Castiel opened the box, Sam choked.

The cage was welded steel rings, and there was a long, transparent tube running up the centre of it, longer than the cage itself, tipped with a tapered steel piece, which Sam knew would sit deep inside his cock. The other end screwed into a jewelled steel ball, which sat at the end of the cage. There was a small post branching off the steel part of the sound, which he knew would be fed through his Prince Albert piercing, to hold the cage and the sound firmly in place.

“It's beautiful, isn't it? It's going to look wonderful on you.” Castiel smiled, ripping open one of the alcohol wipes. 

Sam fought the desperate urge to run like hell. He shook his head, slowly, no. “P-p-please.”

Castiel frowned, and Sam shut his mouth.

“This is going to be beautiful on you. Perfect.” Castiel enunciated slowly and clearly.

It took Sam everything he had to force, “y-yes, _gospodin_ ,” out of his tight throat.

Rather than watch, Sam kept his eyes closed. The steel ring went around his cock and balls, and the steel cage clipped into it. There was the coolness of the alcohol on the tip of his cock, and then cold lube.

“Deep breath, dear one.”

Sam drew in a shaking breath, and clamped his hands white-knuckle tight on the edge of the countertop.

Sam had never done sounding. The idea just didn't have any appeal to him. The cold steel-tipped tube moving up and inside his cock made him shudder. It stretched and burned and Sam hated every moment of it. It seemed to sink incredibly far inside him, before it finally stopped moving. 

Sam was breathing tiny, gasping breaths, his eyes pricking with tears. The stretching, burning sensation wasn't fading.

“Ah, but you're beautiful.” Castiel's tone was warm and admiring, but all Sam could do was tremble. “I know it's quite a bit to get used to, but you'll do this for me, hmm?”

Sam forced himself to nod. Forced out another, “y-yes, _gospodin_.”

“Sweet boy. Come, turn around, bend over the counter for me.”

Sam unclenched his hands, and moved as Castiel instructed. He jolted when warm, slick fingers brushed over his hole a moment later. Castiel showed him the jewelled anal plug, before loosening him enough for it to be seated inside him.

“There. You're all set.” Castiel guided him to stand upright with a fond smile.

Sam was a little dazed, and too frightened to move. The continuing burn inside his cock was maddening, and Sam desperately wanted the cage and sound gone, but he knew that pleading with his _gospodin_ would get him absolutely nowhere.

 

*

 

Castiel wore his suits as though born to them, with effortless, casual elegance. Tieless, the top few buttons undone, he had all of the confidence in the world as he greeted his guests, as they arrived.

There were a couple of formally-dressed waiters offering wine and champagne, and an extensive spread of food on the kitchen island. The classical music was playing at a comfortable volume from Castiel's stereo.

Sam kept his back rigidly straight, his chin up, and his eyes down, being sure to keep Castiel in his sights, so he could maintain his careful positioning.

The first thing that struck Sam was that there was an astonishingly large amount of English being spoken. Not that Sam paid a great deal of attention – it seemed to be mostly greetings, light chatter, and reminiscing. Sam ignored it in favour of maintaining his awareness of where Castiel wanted him.

The second thing that struck Sam was that a number of Castiel's guests had brought pets of their own. Sam's eyes lit on Jonah, kneeling on the floor, and he knew the slinky jet-beaded dress of the woman beside him belonged to Giulia. Forgetting himself for a moment, Sam glanced up in time to see Castiel sweep her into a hug and kiss her deeply.

Sam's heart broke, and he dropped his gaze again, cheeks burning. Jonah was looking up at him with a small smile on his face, which fell when he saw Sam's obvious distress. 

“ _Solnishko_ , go to the corner with Jonah until we fetch you.” Castiel squeezed Sam's hip with his free hand, and gestured to the corner of the room, near the windows, where a number of fluffy cushions had been made into a sort of nest.

Sam nodded numbly, and moved towards the corner, his eyes filling with tears. Jonah followed him, crawling. Sam lowered himself to sit, and Jonah curled up against his side, his brows drawn with worry as the first of Sam's tears fell. Jonah wiped them quickly as Sam sat, his arms limp in his own lap.

“Hush.” Barely a whisper in Sam's ear. “There's nothing to cry about. Be calm, lest you shame your master with your tears.”

Sam sniffled, but managed to stop his tears before they started to fall in earnest. Jonah ran a soothing hand down Sam's back, between the rows of rings.

“Your master cares for you. Deeply. But that doesn't mean you have a claim on him. He's free – free to do what he wants, with whom he wants. If he wishes to kiss my Mistress, neither of us have the right to impose on him not to. Know your place.” A touch of impatience crept into Jonah's whisper.

Sam never ceased to be amazed at how Jonah always seemed to be right. He nodded his understanding, and dried his eyes on the back of his hand.

“This is very beautiful.” Jonah's fingers trailed over Sam's collar, over the chains draped over his skin.

“T-thank you.” Sam whispered, noticing Jonah was wearing the same collar, cock cage, and kneepads that he'd been wearing the on the last visit to Castiel's suite.

“Your master has made art of you. You're his shining jewel tonight.” The corner of Jonah's mouth quirked up in a smile.

Sam was still feeling a little disheartened by Castiel's show of affection to Giulia, but tried to shove it down. He deeply appreciated Jonah's kind words, his support. He leaned over, and pressed a quick kiss to Jonah's cheek. Jonah gave him an affectionate squeeze.

Just then a completely naked very tall dark-skinned man knelt down near them in their pillow nest, close to Jonah's other side. His face was absolutely neutral, his dark eyes downcast. Sam blushed when he saw the man's cock was rock-hard. 

“Jonah,” Giulia's voice was soft. Sam risked a glance upwards, and saw Castiel, his arm around Giulia's waist, smiling down at him. A curvy redhead was on Castiel's other side, in a floor-length dark green gown. “On your hands and knees, darling. We'll be happy to let Luca use you for a bit of relief, won't we?”

A fine shiver ran through Jonah, but he did his formal nod, leaving his head bowed for a long moment before moving to his hands and knees, dipping his lower back. Sam could see Jonah's fear, his nervousness, and was worried for him.

“Are you sure your pet's up to it? Luca's quite substantial, and can be... forceful, in the pursuit of release.” The redhead's voice was soft.

Giulia laughed wholeheartedly. “Jonah can take it. He can take a baseball bat. A Great Dane. He's more than capable of handling your Luca.”

Sam managed to avoid vomiting, but it was a close thing. Jonah blushed furiously, letting his head drop. The stranger – Luca – moved behind him, and pulled a plug from Jonah's ass with a wet squelch. His eyes moved to the redhead's, and she smiled and nodded.

Luca _slammed_ into Jonah, and Jonah's head shot up, his eyes wide and mouth open, though nothing came from it. Jonah's fingers were clawed into the pillows, every muscle tense and taut as Luca pounded him brutally from behind.

Sam's eyes burned with tears, at what was happening to his friend. Luca was being astonishingly rough with him, not seeming to care if Jonah was being hurt or not. Jonah's legs gave out under Luca's thrusts, and Luca followed him to the ground, slamming viciously against him. Sam saw tears on Jonah's cheeks, before he buried his face into the cushions.

Luca finished with a guttural groan, and pulled sharply out and away from Jonah, who was trembling, face-down in the cushions. Luca moved back to kneel at the redhead's side. The three owners turned and walked away, chatting amongst themselves, Luca following silently.

Sam was frozen. He hadn't moved, hadn't so much as blinked through the entire assault. All Jonah seemed capable of doing was trying to breathe, trying to pull himself together. Jonah wiped at his tears with a shaking hand, before propping himself up a little, and searching the pillows for his discarded plug. Upon finding it, he slipped it back inside himself with a wince and a whimper.

“Oh my God.” Sam's voice was blank. “Are... are you okay?”

Jonah struggled to sit up, shaking. He carefully positioned his butt above a fluffy cushion, sitting down on it with another wince. It took Jonah a long moment, but he nodded. Sam curled up against his side, and Jonah let his head fall against Sam's shoulder. Sam wrapped an arm around him, holding him tight.

“I'm... I'm all right.” Jonah's whisper was even fainter than usual. “The... the first one of the night is always the worst.”

Sam's blood froze. He felt panic trying to claw its way up inside him. His breathing quickened, and shallowed.

“Hey. Hey, it's all right.” Jonah ran a soothing hand over Sam's cheek. “Be... be calm.”

Sam stood abruptly, pulling from Jonah's gentle embrace. He turned, walking woodenly back through the party, down the hall, until he found himself in Castiel's bedroom, staring blankly at his mat beside the bed. He wasn't even sure what he was doing, but he knew he couldn't watch his friend be violated like that again.

A gentle touch on his hip made him jolt. “ _Solnishko_?” Castiel's voice, soft, near his ear.

“I... I can't...” Sam didn't even know what he wanted to say.

Firm hands gripped his upper arms, and steered him to sit on the edge of the bed. Castiel moved back to the dresser, fixing a shot. Sam sighed softly, in relief, when Castiel administered it. Castiel stood before him, and Sam wrapped his arms around Castiel, face pressed against Castiel's sternum, eyes closed.

Castiel's hand stroked through Sam's hair, the other hand firm on the back of his neck, as both men waited for the shot to take effect. Sam felt his own muscles relax, as it did. He could almost forget what had happened out in the living room just now. Almost.

“W-will you let them r-rape me, too?” Sam asked, into Castiel's shirt.

“Firstly, it wouldn't be rape, but service on my behalf, don't you think? Do you not think Jonah's service makes his Mistress proud?”

Sam blinked slowly. He hadn't thought of it like that.

“And secondly, no, that's not what you're here for.” Castiel tilted Sam's head up, with gentle fingers under his chin. “You're here to make them all jealous.”

Sam frowned, not quite understanding.

“You're beautiful. Gorgeous. Your face, your hair, your skin, your piercings, your ink, your posture, Ivan's beautiful metalwork, the cage... everything about you is beautiful. Every one of my guests is jealous that they lack a pet as perfect as you.”

Sam thought about how rudely he'd just gotten up and left Jonah, who probably really needed him right now. For how generous Castiel was with his 'perfect' praise, Sam certainly didn't feel it.

“C-can I please go back to Jonah now, _gospodin_?” Sam asked tremulously.

“Of course.” Castiel helped Sam to his feet, who was a little unsteady. He pressed Sam to his side, and wrapped a reassuring arm around him, guiding him back through the suite, and through the party, to where Jonah was sprawled face-down on the cushions. Sam dropped to his knees and laid a reassuring hand on Jonah's shoulder. Jonah didn't even respond.

Sam noticed Jonah leaking pink-tinged come from his abused hole. He saw Jonah's discarded plug, and gently slipped it back inside him, pulling a shudder from Jonah. Sam laid a reassuring hand on Jonah's lower back, and stroked his hair with his other. 

It took some time before Jonah began to move weakly. Sam helped him, carefully, to sit in Sam's cross-legged lap, Jonah's back to Sam's chest, keeping the pressure off his ass. Sam pressed a kiss to the back of Jonah's neck and wrapped his arms around Jonah's middle. Jonah sagged back against Sam.

“You seem calmer. Are you all right?” Jonah's whisper barely made it to Sam's ears.

“It's the shots. They make me not feel. Are you okay?” Sam tried to bury his face in the crook of Jonah's neck, but the metal rings of his collar prevented it.

Jonah laughed weakly. “There's... there's times I wish my Mistress permitted me such luxuries. I'll... I'll make it through this.”

Sam sat on his cushions, silent and calm, as a third blonde-haired slave was brought to use Jonah. He collapsed again, before the slave was done, and a momentary pause was called while a metal-framed bench was brought to the pillow nest and set up. Jonah was strapped into it, his ass lifted and spread, his chest slightly lower, his wrists and ankles cuffed tightly.

Sam was permitted to cradle Jonah's head as the blonde slave resumed pounding. Sam whispered soft reassurances into his ear, but he wasn't sure if Jonah heard him.

There was a bit of a lull, and then Luca reappeared, teeth bared in a snarl, his cock rock-hard again.

Luca was vicious with Jonah, and it took him substantially longer to finish the second time than it had the first.

The third time was longer still.

The room was beginning to empty, Castiel's guests taking their leave, before Jonah was freed from the bench. Sam held him close, curled up on Sam's lap, squeezed him and pressed kisses to his hair, but Jonah simply sat limp, wide-eyed and unseeing. By the end, Jonah's hole was so loose it wouldn't close to hold in his plug, and Sam bore it as Jonah leaked blood and come against his legs.

The last guests were Giulia and the red-haired woman, with Luca by her side. Castiel walked to Sam, who still had Jonah in a tight grip, and stroked a hand through Sam's hair.

“Come. Our guests are leaving. Give Jonah to Luca, _solnishko_.”

Sam blinked up at him, and then to Luca, who had shuffled towards Sam and Jonah, and had his arms extended.

Sam gripped Jonah a little tighter, reluctant, even through the drugs, to release Jonah into his possession, not after Luca had been so unnecessarily cruel to Jonah.

“ _Sam._ Give Jonah to Luca. Now.”

The thing that finally made Sam loosen his grip, and surrender his friend to Luca was the look on Luca's face. He looked profoundly sad, and deeply regretful, and there was no hint of that viciousness that he'd shown earlier in the evening.

Sam had a brief flash of curiosity, of wonder that if Sam had been drugged to be calm, had Luca been drugged to be the opposite? For the amusement of Castiel's guests? Sam fought down his shudder as Luca was so, so careful in scooping Jonah up, cradling Jonah in a bridal carry as he rose to his feet.

After the four had been seen out, Sam was still sitting, stunned, staring at the blood and come smeared across his own skin.

“ _Solnishko._ Come. Let's get you cleaned up, hmm?” Castiel helped Sam to stand on shaking legs, and helped him to the washroom. He perched Sam on the countertop again, and carefully and methodically removed the shimmering silver chains, the earrings, the cuffs and collar, replacing them with the familiar, worn-in leather.

Sam whimpered with relief as Castiel took off the wretched cock cage, and drew the long tube from inside his cock. Sam was panting harshly by the time Castiel had finished, and it made Castiel smile.

There was a lengthy shower, Castiel's hands against Sam's skin as Sam trembled, seated on the bench in the shower stall. As Castiel was finishing cleaning him, his tears started up again, and he couldn't make them stop.

Castiel carried him to the bedroom, and laid Sam down on the bed, after pulling the blankets down. He covered Sam up snugly in them, but the wonderfully soft warmth was scant comfort after the horror of the evening. Sam's tears stained Castiel's pillow, and Castiel gave him another shot – he was grateful when it dragged him into unconsciousness.


	14. Correction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! *waves frantically*
> 
> I hope it's okay! :D

When Sam woke, snuggled in gloriously soft blankets, his eyes were crusted shut, swollen and sore from crying himself to sleep. He lifted an arm and rubbed gently at them, until he managed to work them open.

Castiel had opened the curtains, and the room was flooded with light. Sam squinted against it, and pulled the blankets up over his head, so that only his eyes and nose were exposed.

There was a soft chuckle from behind him. Sam stiffened.

“Barring the one small incident in which you wandered in here last night, your behaviour was remarkably good. I'm proud of you.”

Again, that sickening twist in Sam's gut, accompanied by a surge of pride that he'd pleased Castiel.

“Several of my guests made offers for you.”

Sam blinked. _Offers??_ Sam wasn't sure what Castiel meant.

“The highest bid, if memory serves, was two point five million.”

Sam's heart stopped. 

“They were quite insistent. Almost to the point of rudeness. Of course, you're far too precious to me to sell.” There was a gentle squeeze on Sam's hip. “At least, too precious to part with for two point five.”

Castiel's chuckle followed him into the ensuite.

Terror clawed at Sam's insides. How much... how much did his _gospodin_ think he was worth?! And would he _really_ sell Sam? And what sort of life would Sam have at the hands of a new owner? Would he be tortured, or be whored out, like Jonah at the party last night, or...

Sam wasn't even aware that his vision had greyed out, that he was hyperventilating and rapidly working himself into a panic attack. He felt the blankets pulled down a little, the tap on his cheek, the sting of a needle. He gasped tiny breaths, shaking, until he felt the drug slow his racing heart, and relax his taut muscles. Castiel's face came into view before him, brow creased with concern.

“P-please don't sell me!” A whisper was all Sam could manage.

“I just said I wouldn't. I'm flattered that being mine means so much to you.” Castiel's voice was low, calm and serious.

Sam always marvelled at how, under the effect of the drug, he seemed to find the courage to speak in ways that he _never_ would without it. “H-how much money would be enough? F-five million? Ten? Twenty?”

Castiel rubbed his forehead, frowning for a moment before shooting Sam a wry smile. “Certainly think quite a bit of yourself, don't you? Twenty million?”

Sam wasn't sure how to answer. He hadn't really meant it that way. “I...” Sam swallowed hard. His voice was small. “I... just wanted to know what dollar value you put on my life.”

Castiel stood and tossed aside the towel which had been wrapped around his hips. He pulled the blankets down, and crawled into the bed, flipping Sam to his other side and spooning up snugly, warmly, behind him, a possessive arm around Sam's waist. Sam felt the gentle kiss on the back of his neck, just above the collar.

“I have no answer for that question, because there _is_ no answer for that question. You belong to me, and with me, and no dollar value, regardless of the number of zeros, will change that.” Castiel's voice was soft.

Sam thought for a long moment. It was hard to feel relief when you couldn't feel anything at all. “So... so you were joking. About the two point five.”

“I was joking.” A murmur against Sam's skin.

Another pause. “It wasn't a funny joke.”

Castiel chuckled, and Sam fell asleep in his embrace.

 

*

 

When Sam woke next, sprawled in the warm bed, the light was falling in long, golden bars across the room, which meant it was nearing sunset. The cool blankness of the drug had faded, as well. He wondered briefly if Castiel had used him while he was out. There wasn't any soreness, no slickness between his ass cheeks, so Sam concluded he hadn't. This time.

He peeked over the edge of the blanket. Castiel wasn't in the room.

Sam crawled out of his warm nest and tottered into Castiel's ensuite. He used the facilities, gulped some water and brushed his teeth, before hesitantly heading down the hall, nervously looking for Castiel.

He was in his office, and looked up from his laptop and smiled when he saw Sam in the doorway.

Sam drew in a slightly deeper breath, padded silently across the room and moved to curl up on his cushion.

Castiel intercepted him before he could sit, and used a hand around Sam's wrist to pull him into his lap. Castiel's arms wrapped around Sam, and he pressed his cheek against Sam's chest, over his heart, which was beating rather faster than usual. Sam wasn't sure what to do with his hands – didn't dare run them through Castiel's hair, though some small part of him wanted to.

A final squeeze, and Castiel released him. “Stand just here, _solnishko_ , and bend over the desk.” Castiel's hands on Sam's body moved him where he wanted him – fingertips on Sam's back pushed him down so that his chest was against the cool wood. Sam brought his arms up, cushioning his cheek on them.

Castiel stood beside him, and rested a hand on Sam's lower back, which made Sam's eyes flicker shut. The hard smack across his right ass cheek made them fly back open. He tried to stand, but Castiel pushed him back down, firmly, but not harshly.

“Stay still, dear one. As attractive as your ass is, I simply want to admire it with a little colour. Be still.” Another smack, this one across Sam's left cheek.

Sam clenched his eyes shut tight as Castiel spanked him. He couldn't stop the blush from crawling up his cheeks. His ass grew progressively more heated, but there wasn't any acute pain, no welts, just stinging heat and tingling. Castiel stopped before Sam expected him to, and resumed his seat at the desk. Sam buried his face in his arms.

Gentle fingers trailing against his reddened skin pulled a soft gasp from Sam, and a soft chuckle from Castiel.

“Beautiful.” Castiel's tone was admiring.

There was a long pause, followed by clicking from the keyboard of Castiel's laptop.

Sam stayed in exactly the position he was put in for what seemed like a very long time. Castiel typed endlessly, took a couple of phone calls, and gave instructions to his men, who came and went from the office.

Every time one entered, Sam couldn't help the furious blush at the thought that the men were seeing him as he was stark naked, bent over the desk and with a freshly-spanked ass, while Castiel, fully dressed, worked away on his laptop directly beside him.

It was a new level of humiliation, for Sam, and he had a particularly difficult time coping with it. His embarrassment made him squirm, and his squirming seemed to annoy Castiel, who laid a couple of vicious blows across his ass in reprimand. After the third time, Sam was pulled upright by a cruel hand in his hair, his back pulled tight against Castiel's front.

“I _do not_ understand why you're having such a hard time with this.” Castiel's voice was a hiss in Sam's ear.

Sam whimpered.

“Do I need to drug you into a stupor to make you be still??”

Nausea surged within Sam when he realized that the honest answer to Castiel's question was yes. And more than that, that he'd be grateful for the drugs, if it helped him to forget how sickeningly demeaned he felt.

Castiel snorted and shoved Sam in the direction of his cushion. Sam fell, hard, to his knees on it. Castiel resumed his seat and began typing again as Sam shakily moved to curl up, his knees drawn up and his forehead resting against them. His ass hurt against the soft fabric.

Sam began to feel progressively more guilty that he'd upset Castiel. He was itching with the need to apologize, as Castiel let the silence in the room stretch out. Sam wasn't sure if he even dared to speak. He wasn't sure if the tension he felt was a figment of his imagination. 

Sam was drawn from his thoughts at the soft _snick_ of the laptop closing.

“I think perhaps that we'll spend a little time this evening emphasizing how important it is for you to stay in whatever position it is that I put you in.” Castiel's voice was icy. Sam's heart leapt in terror. “Stay here.”

Castiel stalked out of the room, and Sam heard a soft beep, followed by a door opening. A long pause, and the door closed.

Castiel's voice, from down the hallway, “Come.”

Sam, trembling head to foot, followed his voice down the hall and to the living room, where Castiel had set out a bewildering array of gear. There was black rope, a leather blindfold, and some lengths of bamboo. His muzzle, with the short rubber cock and leather cup for his chin was there. There was also a terrifying-looking steel hook with a loop on the long end and large steel ball on the shorter, curved end – Sam recognized it as an anal hook, from some truly disturbing porn he'd happened across one time, before he'd been taken.

“Come here and kneel.” Castiel's voice was a little calmer. He gestured Sam to the corner of the living room where the pillow nest had been set up, at the party. For the first time, Sam noticed a small steel ring inset into the ceiling.

Sam nervously edged to where Castiel wanted him, and knelt. He kept his eyes closed, his breathing shallow, as Castiel worked on him.

Castiel placed a piece of bamboo across the middle of Sam's back, looped Sam's arms over it, and tied it in position, forcing his chest out and his elbows back. A second one went behind his knees, forcing his legs to be spread wide, and more of the scratchy rope on his skin. The blindfold was next, followed by the muzzle.

The enforced darkness made Sam's heart rabbit in his chest, and he was feeling a little light-headed from fear and lack of oxygen.

He jolted at the warm, slick fingers against his hole, and jolted again as the cold steel ball of the hook was forced up inside him.

He heard the hiss of the rope against steel. There was fumbling on the end of the hook that wasn't inside of him, and it was tugged upwards. A heavy hand on his lower back forced him to arch. More fumbling on the back of Sam's muzzle, and then... nothing.

Sam wasn't sure what was happening. His head was positioned back and up a little uncomfortably, and when he tried to lower it, the anal hook _moved_ , the steel inside him rubbing against his prostate. The sensation made his breath catch in his chest, his eyes flickering open, to see only blackness.

Castiel's chuckle, low and dark. “Do you think this will help you keep your position?”

Sam was frozen, kneeling, the anal hook somehow connected to the straps of his muzzle – and he couldn't move without forcing the hook to move inside him.

“Yes or no, _solnishko_?” A touch of iciness crept into Castiel's voice.

Sam forced himself to nod, the ropes pulling the hook, and the sensation made him shudder. 

“If this is what it takes to make you be still, and stay in the position I want you in, then so be it.”

 _No, no, please!_ A tiny, hurt whimper escaped through Sam's nose. His knees were already starting to hurt, on Castiel's hardwood, and his neck, and shoulders...

“I'm having some company over for dinner. I'm sure you'll do your best not to embarrass me, nor give me any reasons to require Ilia to further correct your behaviour.”

Sam's heart stuttered in his chest. He blushed crimson, forcing himself to nod again, the hook pulling at his hole.

He closed his eyes behind the blindfold.

 

*

 

Sam was in the process of figuring out that if he sat up as straight as he could, while keeping his lower back dipped, that he could shift some of his weight back off his knees, and onto his shins and toes, which was a blessing, when the door opened.

Warm greetings, and Sam recognized Giulia's voice, light and lilting. Sam immediately blushed furiously again at the thought that perhaps Jonah would see him in his current state. His embarrassment was immediately followed with another spike of jealousy, that Giulia was taking up even _more_ of Castiel's time.

The recollection of Jonah's words about Sam not having claim over Castiel seemed faint and distant, and had little effect on the flare of possessiveness in Sam's heart.

The voices moved closer, and soft music started from Castiel's stereo. Delicious smells wafted to him, and Sam heard the noises of the table being set.

“Sam.” The barest whisper in Sam's ear, and he jolted, hard, not having known anyone was near him. The movement wrenched the hook, pulling against Sam's rim, before he made a conscious effort to settle back into his previous position.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you.” Jonah's soft whisper, his hands cradling Sam's head, a gentle kiss on the narrow strip of cheek between muzzle and blindfold. 

Sam whimpered, the gentle touches incredibly welcome and incredibly soothing.

“Are you okay? Is anything cold or tingling or numb?” Jonah's whisper, tight with concern. Sam felt gentle touches on his forearms, his hands, his calves and his feet.

Sam managed a tiny “nuh-uh” sound through his nose, keeping his head as still as he could.

“Your knees must be very sore. I'm sorry I can't help with that. I'd give you my kneepads, if that were permitted.” Jonah apologized.

Sam shook his head, very slightly, no, trying to indicate that none of this was Jonah's fault. He felt Jonah move before him, Jonah's knees brushing against the insides of his own. A gentle hand touched Sam's thigh, and one stroked Sam's hair.

Somehow, Sam's embarrassment faded in the light of Jonah's obvious concern and caring. Jonah was silent, and kept up his gentle, reassuring touches as Castiel and Giulia dined, their voices soft, and with frequent laughter.

Sam's lower back and shoulders were beginning to fatigue, and cramp. He sagged, and the hook was jostled, and Jonah's hands were right there, holding him up, correcting his position.

“Please, try to be strong.” Jonah's gentle whisper, encouraging. “Not much longer now. They're almost done.”

Sam started to tremble, and he couldn't fight back his tears.

A long few minutes passed, Jonah doing his best to calm Sam, when Giulia's voice called over to them.

“Jonah, darling, help your friend out of his bonds. He's been in them quite long enough.”

“Done, you're done. You did it.” Jonah's hands made quick work of the rope between the muzzle and the hook. Sam sagged, exhausted, as Jonah eased the hook out, removed the blindfold and muzzle, the rope and the bamboo poles.

Sam curled up into himself, and Jonah was right there, rubbing the rope-marks and Sam's badly reddened knees, wiping his tears and brushing his hair back, running soothing hands over Sam's trembling limbs, kissing his cheek.

“You did so well. I'm sure your master will be proud.” A murmur against Sam's ear.

Sam uncurled a little, shifted to sit cross-legged, and pulled Jonah into his lap, Jonah's chest against his own, Jonah's legs wrapped around his waist. Sam buried his face in the crook of Jonah's neck. Jonah held him close.

Sam jolted when Castiel's voice came from directly behind him. “I assume we won't have any more issues with you staying where I put you, hmm?”

“N-no, _gospodin_.” Sam's voice was tremulous. Jonah gave him one final squeeze and moved away, shifting to a kneel.

“A pleasure, as always, Castiel. Jonah? Come, darling.” Giulia kissed Castiel's cheek, and Castiel saw the two of them out of his suite.

Sam stayed exactly where he had been sitting, his head and gaze lowered, not daring to move, not daring to do anything at all. His shoulders were slumped, in exhaustion and a flavour of defeat that he couldn't quite put a name to.

A finger looped through the ring on the back of Sam's collar led him to the kitchen, where he ate his flavourless food from the bowl on the floor, and drank the glass of milk he was given. He moved woodenly through preparing for bed. This time, after seeing Sam secured safely on the mat beside the bed, Castiel dimmed the lights, laid down on his bed, and read his book.

Sam fell asleep to the gentle sounds of the pages turning.


	15. Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, the 'silly self-indulgent side-project' is over 50k.
> 
> /facepalm
> 
> Sorry about this.

Sam woke, and his first thought was, _'No, I won't do this.'_

The light was faint through the crack of the curtains, and Castiel was snoring softly, from somewhere above him.

Almost immediately, the saner half of his brain offered, _'This is your life. Not doing it isn't an option.'_

_'I could run. He dismissed most of the guards, and I bet the master keycard is in his wallet, which he keeps in the top drawer in the closet...'_

Sam's heart thudded in his chest.

_'What part of this being your life now was in any way unclear?? Remember freedom meaning capture, and capture meaning the cell??'_

The obstinate part of his brain didn't seem to want to give up. _'I won't be so stupid this time. He won't catch me.'_

_'He will. He will, and he'll throw you in that cell, and never let you out. I guarantee it.'_

Sam stared blankly up at the ceiling, completely at war with himself.

_'The key to the lock on the collar is on the nightstand. A few feet above your head.'_

Sam's hand twitched.

_'Why the hell are you even considering this? This is insanity. This is life-ending.'_

Sam exhaled a shaky breath.

 _'What more can he do to me, really, that he hasn't already done?'_ Tears pricked in the corners of Sam's eyes.

Sam was snapped abruptly from his thoughts as Castiel's head appeared over the edge of the bed, smiling down at him. ” _Solnishko_. Come up here, on the bed.” Castiel scooched back, and patted the bed in front of him.

Sam climbed to his feet, the chain clinking, and then crawled into the bed, letting Castiel position him to his liking. Sam ended up being the little spoon, in a gloriously warm and soft blanket cocoon. Sam felt bereft as Castiel snuggled him close, somehow feeling both as though he'd missed his opportunity, and also as though Castiel's waking had saved him from making a ghastly mistake.

Castiel's arm tightened around him. “ _Solnishko_? What's wrong?”

It took a moment for Sam to realize he was curled into himself, crying.

_Nothing._

_Everything._

Sam shook his head, sniffled, and wiped the back of a hand across his eyes. 

He was horrified when he heard the words bubble up out of him, completely out of his control. “I was... going to run.”

Sam froze, the breath stopping in his chest.

“Hmmm. Were you. And yet, you're still here.” Castiel's voice was neutral. The arm around Sam's waist shifted, slipping backwards, and Castiel's hand gripped his hip.

Sam whimpered, his breath restarting in small gasps, and he had no idea how to get himself out of the trouble that he was likely in.

The logical side of his brain shoved itself firmly to the front. “I... I b-belong here. W-with you. I'd... I'd never. Never. It was... it was just a stupid thought.”

Castiel rolled away from him, onto his back, stretching. He interlaced his hands under his head, against the pillow, and closed his eyes.

“So you're still struggling with this, hmm? Have my lessons not been thorough enough?”

Sam twisted to face Castiel, propping himself up on an elbow. “N-no!! They... they have!”

Castiel sighed deeply. “I really didn't want to demonstrate just how bad things could get for you, but regrettably, you're not leaving me a great deal of choice.”

Sam's heart stopped.

“I... I didn't...” Sam's logical side tried one final time.

“It's not whether you tried, it's that you even thought to.”

“B-but I c-confessed.” Sam grasped at straws, hoping somehow that doing so might save him.

“And I'm grateful that you did. Otherwise, I wouldn't have known how woefully inadequate my teachings have been.” Castiel cracked an eye open, to look at Sam, who had blanched and was trembling. “And to think, I was under the impression you were well-enough behaved, and adjusted, to accompany me on my next business trip.”

Sam's mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Castiel reached for his cell phone, on the nightstand on the far side of the bed.

Panicking, Sam lurched across him, grabbing for the phone and knocking it to the floor. In a heartbeat, Castiel had his hand around Sam's throat, and slammed him to his back, against the bed, looming over him, his face eerily blank.

“Do not mistake my kindness, my generosity, for weakness.”

Sam choked, unable to get any air in or out. He clutched Castiel's wrist, trying to pull him off, but Castiel's grip was like iron.

The last thing Sam saw were blue eyes, staring down at him.

 

*

 

Sam woke in pitch blackness, and utter silence. He was stiff, and cold, and face-first against a cement wall. His wrists were chained spread above his head, and his ankles wide apart. He tried to move, discovering almost no give to the chains whatsoever.

It took him a moment to realize why his breath felt hot against his skin. There was a gag, rigid rubber in his mouth, and heavy, hot leather encasing his head. There were only two holes in the hood, for his nostrils, and the left one had a feeding tube running through it, so the only air Sam was able to get was through one small hole in the leather. He felt as though he was suffocating.

Sam was attempting to slow his racing heart when a slash of pain was laid across both of his ass cheeks. He would've screamed had he been able to, his back arching convulsively.

He endured blow after blow across his ass and thighs, shuddering, trying desperately not to cry, not wanting a mess of tears and snot inside the hood.

The blows stopped, and Sam let his forehead fall against the wall, his chest heaving, fighting for air. He distinctly felt trickles of hot liquid down the curve of his ass and the backs of his thighs.

And through it all, Sam hadn't been able to hear a single noise, not a single sound other than the pounding of his own blood in his ears. Not so much as a speck of light, either, to relieve the unrelenting darkness.

The tube in Sam's nose was jostled, and Sam felt the cold liquid forced into his stomach. He wasn't sure what it was, but an awful, foreign, decidedly chemical taste rose up the back of his throat.

Sam figured out he'd been drugged when he began to feel dizzy and woozy. He half expected to be pulled into unconsciousness, but it didn't happen – he was stuck in some sort of ghastly limbo, a sort of half-consciousness, the welts on his skin throbbing and bleeding, gasping for air.

Something decidedly wooden was positioned between Sam's legs. Perhaps four inches across. If Sam slumped, the wood pressed up hard against his perineum, taking a little of Sam's weight off his shoulders.

And they left him like that.

 

*

 

Everything was erratic. The beatings, the rape, the drugs, the occasional food forced into Sam's stomach. The presence of the wooden beam between his legs. The cold water splashed over him, the rough cloth scrubbing the blood and urine from his skin.

They didn't let him down. He was kept upright, chained against the wall.

Sam tried to keep track of the days, but it was impossible, there was nothing but the dark, the silence, and the torture. Sam learned that during the times that the beam was present, he could sleep upright, sagged against the wall, barely feeling the coolness of the cement through the leather over his cheek.

There were periods of time that Sam _was_ drugged unconscious, but Sam wasn't sure what was happening during those times. It was hard to know if anything was hurt, when everything already hurt.

As one set of welts healed, they were replaced by another. And another.

 

*

 

During the times that Sam was able to think, all that he could do was apologize. He apologized in his head. He forced his mouth, around unforgiving rubber and behind thick leather, to form the words, even though not a sound escaped him.

He didn't beg to be let go, or to be let down, or to have the hood or tube removed, to be able to breathe properly, or eat properly... he begged for forgiveness.

Realistically, he wasn't sure if Castiel was ever actually going to free him from this. So he did what he could, in his current position.

He apologized.

 

*

 

Sam was caught in one of his drugged dazes, though it was beginning to fade when there was a tug on the tube in his nose, and it began to be withdrawn. He choked and coughed through his nose, and was trying to catch his breath when the heavy leather hood was peeled from his face.

Shocked, Sam pulled in a huge breath, coughing, tightening his eyes against the light. His mouth felt like a sewer, and he desperately wanted to spit the remaining taste of the drugs out, but didn't dare. He gasped great lungfuls of air, not really believing how good it felt simply to be able to breathe.

There were tugs on his wrists, the heavy steel restraints removed, and someone held him up as his ankles were freed, as well.

Too weak to stand, the person behind Sam moved him from against the wall, and lowered him to kneel. Sam crunched over, his face near the floor. Not once had he opened his eyes.

Someone cleared their throat, and it was the first noise from another human being that Sam had heard in... he wasn't sure how long.

It struck him suddenly that because the hood was gone, he was no longer gagged. When he tried his voice, it was a whispery rasp.

“I... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. So sorry. P-please. P-please f-for...”

“Hush.”

It had been long enough that Sam almost didn't recognize Castiel's voice. Sam's mouth snapped shut. His apologies continued, on loop, in his head, as they had for countless hours.

“This is going to go one of two ways. You've had a taste of what some of the people who find themselves in my compound feel. Some have it easier, some worse. It can _always_ get worse.” Castiel's voice was cool, in a way that terrified Sam.

Sam choked out a sob, pressing his forehead against the concrete floor.

“And you give me reason after reason to simply leave you down here. Your disobedience, your wilfulness and intractability are _tiresome_. I've taken the time and the effort to make you perfect, to make you mine, yet you insist on fighting me at every step.”

Sam bit his lip hard enough to taste blood.

“How much easier it would be for me to simply be rid of you, and replace you with a more _agreeable_ pet.” Castiel mused.

 _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..._ Sam waited for the axe to fall.

A hand in his hair wrenched his head up. Sam's eyes flickered open, meeting Castiel's.

“And yet, you're pretty. And I do have a substantial amount of resources invested in you. You may join me in my suite upstairs again. Know that if you so much as _think_ about running from me, I _will_ destroy you.”

 _Not kill. He didn't say kill. He said destroy._ Sam somehow thought that 'destroy' was a million times worse. “Y-yes, I... I understand, _gospodin_. Th-thank you, _gospodin_.”

Castiel crouched down and picked Sam up in a bridal carry, Sam's head limp against Castiel's shoulder.

“Perhaps, when you're feeling a little better, you can show me the depths of your regret, hmm?” Castiel murmured, his lips pressed against Sam's hair.

Sam whimpered, but forced his voice out. “Y-yes, _gospodin_. P-please.” If Castiel was going to give him a chance to vocalize the apologies that were still burning within him, Sam would be grateful for the opportunity.

 

*

 

Back upstairs in Castiel's suite, the first thing that Castiel did was run a bath. Sam knelt on the floor while it filled. He'd tried to stand, as Castiel had lowered him to his feet, but his legs were simply too weak, and so he knelt.

Castiel ended up needing to help him into the warm water, as well. Sam relaxed in its embrace as Castiel ran a soft cloth over his skin. The scent of the soap was pleasant in Sam's nose, very unlike noxious rubber and stifling leather.

Sam had always kind of liked the smell of leather, but now he wasn't so sure he still felt that way.

After the bath, Castiel heaved Sam up to sit on the bathroom vanity. He dried Sam roughly with a towel, secured Sam in his cuffs and collar, and waited impatiently while Sam slowly brushed the foulness out of his mouth. The mint in his mouth felt very strange, after having rubber and chemicals the only thing Sam had tasted for weeks. Possibly months.

Castiel led the way back down the hallway, to the kitchen. Unable to stand, much less walk, Sam was forced to crawl slowly after him.

It took all of the energy Sam had to simply make it to his cushion beside the dining room table. He collapsed on it once he got there, panting heavily, his cheek against the soft fabric.

Even after he heard the soft _tink_ of his food bowl being set on the floor, it took Sam a long time to summon up the energy to shift his limbs into a kneel, and to lower his face to the food, his arms trembling. Even chewing was exhausting. The solid food felt strange in Sam's stomach, and filled him uncomfortably full, even though there wasn't much of it.

Afterwards, Castiel led the way to Sam's room, Sam crawling slowly after him. The first thing Sam noticed was that someone had cleaned the scattered stars from the floor. The second was that everything else was exactly as it had been, the last time he was in here.

“Stay here until someone fetches you. You may sleep, if you wish.” Castiel turned and left the room, leaving Sam alone in it.

Sam blinked through bleary eyes, trying to figure out the best way to use his very limited energy reserves. He didn't want to sleep in the cage, even if it was padded. He wasn't sure he'd ever want to have his movements confined, ever again.

Sam crawled past the cage, and snagged the blanket along the way. He desperately wanted to know if all of his belongings were still in the closet, but he simply didn't have the strength to check. He managed to make it to his cushion, used the last of his fading reserves to roll the edge into a pillow, spread the blanket over himself, and dropped like a stone into sleep.


	16. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are awesome. Did I mention that before? Awesome.
> 
> Also, if anyone's inspired to create fanart for this piece, I'd be absolutely thrilled. I'd even open a collection for this work, like I have for Sammy's Time at Stanford, to house them. :D
> 
> Enjoy.

Sam woke completely disoriented. He fought for air through the one small hole in the hood, the concrete chilling his skin... before realizing he was on his back, on his cushion, in his room. There was pale light around the edges of the shade over his skylight.

It took a long time for his racing heart to slow itself. The phantom taste of the drugs in the back of his throat stubbornly refused to fade, and Sam thought he'd lose his mind if he couldn't make it stop.

He moved first to his knees, and then shakily to his feet, feeling as though he'd collapse at any moment.

He didn't, though, and managed to make it to his small bathroom. He used frankly too much toothpaste, scrubbing every surface of his mouth that he could reach, spit, rinsed, and did it all over again before the psychic odour of the drugs seemed to fade a little.

The little strength he had in his legs gave out as he was attempting to shower, and he had to finish cleaning himself, and rinse, seated on the floor of the small shower stall.

Exhausted by his efforts, he managed to get himself mostly dry, before crawling back out towards his cushion.

He froze, and the breath stopped in his chest when he saw Boris standing beside it.

Boris snapped his fingers, and pointed to a spot on the floor near his feet.

It took a reserve of courage that Sam hadn't known he had, to crawl to Boris's feet and kneel there.

Boris bent down, and placed a metal bowl on the floor in front of Sam. When Sam looked, it seemed to contain some sort of watery porridge, with small wisps of steam rising from the surface. Sam lowered his face to the bowl, and tentatively licked some of it into his mouth – it was nearly flavourless, smooth and bland in his mouth, though with some sort of distinct, bitter chemical aftertaste, and faintly gritty between his teeth.

Sam realized he was probably being drugged again, and there wasn't a thing he could do to avoid it. It wasn't as though Boris was going to accept Sam's polite refusal of the food, and besides, he was so desperately malnourished that he needed every calorie he could get.

He was carefully licking along the inside of the bowl, trying to be sure he got every drop of food, when Boris reached down and took the bowl away. He turned, and left the room without another word.

Sam moved slowly to his cushion, sitting cross-legged on it and wrapping the blanket around himself. He let his head droop, and closed his eyes, waiting for whatever it was that the drugs were going to do to him.

He sat that way for several minutes, but nothing seemed to be happening. He opened his eyes again, and they were perfectly capable of focusing. He actually, somehow, felt a little stronger since the food. He lifted an arm, his hand shaking a little, but his arm did what he instructed it to do, the hand closing briefly into a fist before releasing and lowering again.

Sam was deeply confused.

He sat for a few more minutes, before the need to know whether his meagre possessions still belonged to him grew too powerful to ignore. He crawled to his closet, opened it, and whimpered in relief. The Leather Honey, cloth, magnetic steel spheres, his crayons and paper. And his paper stars, in a new, clear plastic bowl.

Sam swallowed hard, and reached for the paper and crayons, bringing them out to the centre of the room, and laying down on his tummy, near the edge of his cushion, pulling the blanket snugly around him.

He wondered, briefly, what the most apologetic colour was, before realizing that his next project would probably take up many of his crayons, so it likely didn't matter.

He started with dark green. In careful block letters, he wrote on his paper.

_'I am so sorry.'_

And then he wrote it again. And again. And again.

When the page was full, he carefully separated it from the pad and set it aside, and continued anew on a new page.

Sam worked his way through several pages, his hand cramping and aching with fatigue, running out of his dark green and switching to a dark blue, and then a purple, and then a red.

He could barely move his hand when Boris appeared, another steel bowl in his hand, which he put on the floor before Sam, after Sam carefully moved his papers to safety.

More of the thin gruel, the bitter aftertaste and the grit. Sam thought it reminded him vaguely of cream of wheat, though he'd never known cream of wheat to taste so weirdly chemical. He ate it all without hesitation or complaint. Boris fetched a glass of water from Sam's bathroom, and Sam drank it quickly. Boris took the bowl and left.

Sam returned to his work. He wrote his apologies ceaselessly, and fell asleep, with the lights still on, his crayon clutched in his hand and his face pressed against his half-finished page.

 

*

 

Sam woke with a jolt in the pitch-blackness, but knew this time that it was simply the dark, and not the stifling hood he'd been forced to wear. He was thirsty, and needed to pee, and crawled in what he thought was the direction of the bathroom, after untangling himself from his blanket.

He'd guessed correctly. The light, when he flipped it on, seared his eyes, and he squinted until they adjusted. This time, when he attempted to stand, his legs held him up with barely a tremor. He was able to brush his teeth again, gulp some water, use the facilities and wash his hands all perfectly well.

Something shifted in Sam's thoughts. Perhaps the bitterness of the food wasn't to drug him into a stupor, but instead was somehow giving him his strength back. Like when a pill accidentally dissolved on your tongue – the taste was awful, but it was there to help.

Sam's mouth quirked into a crooked little smile.

Sam left the bathroom door wide as he left. The light from the doorway was enough to illuminate his little work area. Sam stretched his hand, settled back down on his stomach, and continued with his endless apologies. Page after page after page.

 

*

 

Sam didn't remember falling asleep again, but when he woke, _Castiel_ was sitting right in front of him, cross-legged on the floor, barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only the silky red sleep pants. He had a sheaf of papers in his hands, which he was examining intently.

The room was warm and bright with the sunlight through the skylight, and it took Sam's sleepy brain a moment to realize that Castiel was slowly, carefully looking through all of the pages of apology that Sam had so painstakingly lettered out.

Sam shifted into a kneel, but Castiel didn't acknowledge him, and kept up his careful inspection of the papers. Sam didn't dare speak.

Sam was a little confused, when after several long moments Castiel was _still_ reading the papers. Surely, by now, he realized that they would all be the same? And yet he seemed to give the same quiet attention to every single apology that Sam had written.

Castiel reached the bottom of the pile of pages. Sam looked down at the half-finished one still on the pad of paper, before removing it and handing it to Castiel, his gaze downcast.

A smile pulled at the corner of Castiel's mouth, but he read what Sam had written, before placing it carefully on the top of the pile of papers, which he then set aside.

“Your hand must be very sore, to have written so much in such a short period of time. Are you left- or right-handed?” Castiel's voice was gentle.

Sam tentatively lifted his aching left hand, fingers curled and stiff.

Castiel took it gently, turning it palm-up between his own hands, and rubbed long strokes down Sam's palm. He gave the same careful attention to each of Sam's fingers, warm massage and careful touches, and Sam's hand began to feel substantially better.

Sam wanted to thank him, but knew better, as he hadn't been given permission to speak.

Castiel lifted Sam's hand, pressing Sam's palm against Castiel's darkly stubbled cheek. He held it there for a long moment, before turning his head and pressing a kiss to Sam's palm, and finally releasing his hand.

Sam withdrew it carefully, clasping it in his right and lowering them to his thighs.

Castiel seemed to be letting the tension in the room build, but Sam sat perfectly still and silent. His breath was fast and shallow, and tears pricked in the corners of his eyes. He didn't dare look up to meet Castiel's steady gaze.

“So, I've decided that you won't need to be chained to my bed every night. I'll even remove the locks on your cuffs and collar.” Castiel's voice was low and steady.

Sam's breathing hitched. Castiel reached for the cuff on his left wrist, using the key to remove the lock, leaving the cuff in place.

“I could even dress you, remove all your bonds and set you outside the door, give you your freedom, give you a million dollars and tell you to run. And you wouldn't do it, would you?” Gentle touches, the hated locks removed from his wrists and ankles, and finally his collar.

Though the actual difference in weight with the locks missing was negligible, the difference in how his bonds felt, in Sam's mind, was huge.

“N-no, _gospodin_. I... I belong with you.” Sam's voice was small, but his words made Castiel's face break into a wide smile.

Castiel made to remove the cuff from Sam's right wrist, and Sam reflexively yanked his wrist free from Castiel's grasp, his left hand covering the buckle.

Sam's heart rabbited in his chest, but all Castiel did was chuckle, before lowering his hands to his own thighs.

“See, now, with what you've put yourself through... _now_ I believe you. You're more mine than you ever have been, hmm?”

Sam nodded fervently, swallowing around the painful lump in his throat.

“And this is excellent timing, because I have another business trip which I leave for soon, and I think I'd like you by my side for it.”

The horror of endless hours alone in his room swamped Sam, and he was quick to nod his agreement again. “P-p-please, _gospodin_.”

“Sweet boy.” Castiel raised a hand, and trailed gentle fingers along the edge of Sam's jaw, before standing and leaving Sam's room, Sam utterly still on his cushion.

 

*

 

Sam really wasn't sure how 'soon' the upcoming trip would be. He was tremendously nervous, not having a clue what to expect, or what would be expected of him.

He carefully gathered his pages of apologies, and set them beside the bowl of paper stars. He nervously arranged, and then rearranged, and then rearranged again his belongings on his shelves. He was doing it a fourth time when Boris entered, with another steel bowl in his hands.

Sam moved before Boris even had the chance to snap his fingers, kneeling and waiting for the bowl to be set on the floor. It was more of the gruel, and Sam was comforted by the familiar, reassuring bitterness. As he was eating, Boris left the room, and returned bearing an armful of folded, white clothing. When Sam finished, Boris picked up the bowl and dropped the clothes into a pile before him.

“Brush teeth. Shower. Dress.” Boris scowled.

Sam hurried through the instructions he'd been given, and Boris was still waiting when he emerged from the bathroom. The clothes turned out to be the simple scrubs that he'd worn to the treatment clinic in the past. No socks, no underwear, no shoes.

Sam stood nervously before Boris, the brush of the cotton unfamiliar against his skin, and Boris snapped a leash onto the front of Sam's collar. Sam followed mutely when he was led from the suite, down the elevator and into the garage. Boris shoved him into the back of the empty limousine, closing the heavy door once Sam was inside, and leaving him alone.

Sam was feeling a little faint, his breathing fast and shallow, and he tried to calm himself. Surely, if he'd been put in the car, surely that meant that Castiel would be joining him shortly. And it also meant that he hadn't done anything to screw up his chances of joining Castiel on the trip.

Sam was managing to pull in some slightly deeper breaths when the door opened, and Castiel smiled at him as he took his spot on the comfortable seat. Without being prompted, Sam edged towards him, and then between Castiel's thighs when Castiel spread his legs, tucking himself securely between them.

Sam relaxed profoundly when Castiel ruffled his hair, and then stroked gently through it. Sam wasn't even perturbed by the limo beginning to move.

“ _Solnishko._ ” Castiel's voice called. Sam gave himself a little shake, and raised his head, darting a glance upward at Castiel, who was still smiling.

“Come, up, straddle my lap, facing me.” Castiel patted the top of the thigh that Sam didn't have a deathgrip on. Sam moved to comply, feeling a little stiff as he settled himself across Castiel's lap.

Sam tried, he really did try, but he couldn't stop himself from wrapping his arms around Castiel, and tucking his face into the crook of his neck, pressing himself as close as he could.

Castiel chuckled softly, and wrapped his arms around Sam's back, holding him tight.

After a few long moments, Castiel loosened his grip, and slipped his hands under Sam's shirt, letting them rest warmly on his waist.

When he spoke, Castiel's voice was a rumble in Sam's ear. “When we're flying, we'll be in the air for a long time. Are you afraid to fly?”

Sam wasn't quite certain how to answer. Curled up so tight against Castiel, he wasn't sure there was anything he was afraid of. He decided honesty was the best policy, murmuring the words against Castiel's skin. “N-never... I-I've never been on a p-plane, _gospodin_.”

“Ah, you give me so many firsts, dear one.” Castiel turned his head a little, and pressed a kiss to Sam's hair.

Sam flashed briefly on the sensation of come oozing out of him, and shoved the thought away. Hard.

“If you find yourself upset, or frightened, we'll give you a bit of sedative to help you relax.” Castiel soothed, giving Sam a gentle squeeze.

Sam nodded into Castiel's neck, and both men were silent until the limo rolled to a stop.

 

*

 

The plane was waiting nearby, on a small, private airstrip, when the limo arrived. It was small and sleek, with a row of eight circular windows down its length.

Castiel, his hand in Sam's, led him to the plane and up its stairs. He nodded a greeting to the pilot and flight attendant as he walked by them. Sam stayed silent.

The inside of the plane, to Sam's eyes, was remarkably luxurious. He'd been expecting multiple rows of cramped seats, body odour and babies screaming. Instead there was comfortable furniture, a huge television, and one of his cushions on the floor next to a recliner with an integral writing surface. There was a hallway, leading farther back into the plane.

When Castiel took a seat in the recliner, flipping open his briefcase and extracting his laptop, Sam curled up on the cushion.

Sam was trying to figure out if he could 'accidentally' brush against the recliner, to see if the fabric really was as soft as it looked, when a TV remote was lowered into his line of sight.

Sam took it with a trembling hand.

“Watch what you like, but keep the sound off and the subtitles on, as I need to get some work done.” Castiel's hand stroked once through Sam's hair, before retreating.

Sam stared wide-eyed up at the colossal television in front of him, before remembering himself. “Y-yes, thank you, _gospodin_.”

A few minutes of concentration on the remote, and Sam powered up the television, immediately muting it. He figured out how to load the channel guide, and spent some time looking through the ridiculously large number of listings. Castiel's laptop keys clicked softly from beside him.

Sam was a little bit paralyzed by the sheer number of choices. He picked one at random, and it was some sort of cooking show, where teams were competing to make elaborate desserts. Even simply seeing them on the screen made Sam's mouth water uncontrollably. He wasn't even sure the last time he'd tasted anything sweet, and he'd always had a major sweet tooth.

He couldn't stop his soft groan when one of the teams poured an incredibly decadent-looking glossy ganache over a chocolate cake so dark it was nearly black. He quickly clamped his mouth tight, not having meant to disturb Castiel.

There wasn't any reprimand, but Sam thought it wise to change the channel regardless.

He stumbled upon a nature documentary about oceans, narrated by that one British guy, whose name eluded him. Sam could almost remember his soothing voice, and imagined it in his head as the captions went by across the bottom of the screen.

Sam laid down, curled up on his cushion, and watched his soothing show as his eyelids grew heavy and drooped. He was asleep before it finished.

 

*

 

A gentle brush of fingers against his cheek woke him. His eyes flickered open and upwards, seeing Castiel leaning down from his chair, smiling. Sam smiled back.

“Are you hungry, dear one?”

Sam nodded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and sitting up.

“Anika?” Castiel called towards the back of the plane.

A soft, feminine voice answered, but it wasn't English. Castiel and the woman conversed for a few moments, before both of them fell quiet.

Sam saw the woman approach with a plate in her hands, which she offered to Castiel with a small bow. Sam couldn't see what was on the plate, from his spot on the floor. To Sam's immense shock, Castiel put the plate on the floor in front of Sam. There was a club sandwich on it – thick slabs of chicken, crispy bacon, lettuce and deeply red tomato.

Though his mouth watered, and he couldn't take his eyes off the delicious sandwich, Sam wasn't stupid enough to even think about touching it. He assumed the worst, that it was simply there to torment him, ultimately to be replaced by something lacking anything resembling flavour or texture.

“Just this time, you may use your hands to eat. I suspect you'd just make a mess, trying to eat that without them.”

Sam froze. Had... had that been permission?

There was a gentle nudge on his shoulder. “Eat.”

That had been permission. Sam shakily lifted the plate, balancing it carefully in his cross-legged lap. He picked up a quarter of the sandwich, inhaling the aromas before taking a bite.

Sam was stunned stupid by how delicious it was. It even had mayonnaise on it, rich and creamy in Sam's mouth. Sam took his time eating, relishing every bite. When the sandwich was gone, he felt a pang of loss, even though his stomach felt uncomfortably full.

The stewardess whisked his plate away, once Sam was done with it. Sam was licking the crumbs off his fingers when Castiel passed him a heavy linen napkin, which Sam used to clean himself up.

Someone had turned the TV off while Sam was asleep, but Sam still had the remote. No one said otherwise, so Sam turned the television back on, finding another documentary. This one was following a pride of lions across a savannah.

There was a soft tap on the top of his head, and Sam looked up to Castiel, who was smiling.

“Let this melt. Don't chew it, all right?” Castiel had a small, dark chocolate sphere between his fingers, which he held out to Sam's mouth.

 _Chocolate._ Sam's heart skipped a beat.

Sam swallowed hard, and opened his mouth obediently. Castiel popped the chocolate inside, and Sam held it carefully on his tongue. Sam's eyes flickered shut as it began to melt, the flavour filling his mouth.

Suddenly, the sphere of chocolate popped, and Sam's mouth was flooded with delicious, deeply rich, silky, molten chocolate cream. Sam simply held it in his mouth, for a very long time, before finally swallowing.

Sam heard the clicking of the keys of Castiel's laptop start up again.

Sam kept his eyes closed, breathing slowly and deeply. He wasn't entirely sure why Castiel was spoiling him so profoundly, but was deeply grateful for it. He assumed that it meant that his multitude of apologies had sufficed.

Sam curled up on his cushion for another nap with a smile, around his full tummy and the sweetness still lingering in his mouth.

He didn't see Castiel pause his work, and smile down at him for a long moment, before sighing and returning to his laptop.


	17. The Flickers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHIFTING TAGS, FOLKS
> 
> I'm just gonna go ahead and apologize in advance for this. Please don't kill me.
> 
> *slinks off into the shadows*

Sam woke feeling rested and refreshed. He sprawled out on his cushion with a yawn, stretching and then curling his fingers and toes. He felt better than he had in quite some time, and blinked his eyes open, looking up to see Castiel still at work on his laptop.

Though he wanted to stay how he was, warm and comfortable (and _clothed_ ) on his cushion, the urgency in his bladder took the decision out of his hands. And as loathe as he was to speak without permission, he wasn't sure he was permitted to get up, and also didn't know where the washroom was.

_“Gospodin...?”_

“Hmm?” Castiel was clearly distracted, frowning at his laptop.

“I need the washroom, please.” Sam kept his voice quiet.

Castiel gestured vaguely towards the rear of the plane. “Go.”

Sam climbed to his feet, astonished by the strength he felt in his legs. He thought he might even be able to run, if he wanted to...

Sam backpedalled frantically in his head – not run from his _gospodin_ , just... just run, like, on a treadmill. Sam pulled in a tremulous breath and gave himself a little shake, heading for the rear of the plane.

The first door lead to what looked like a small kitchen. The second was the washroom he was looking for. Sam used the facilities and headed back out to his cushion, settling on it wordlessly.

He wondered briefly how long his nap had been, and how much closer to their destination they were. All Sam could see from his spot on the floor out the windows was dark sky, so he didn't know if they were over land, or over ocean...

Castiel had said they'd be flying 'for a long time', but Sam still wasn't sure what that meant.

Sam made a conscious effort to let it go. It wasn't as though his _gospodin_ was under any obligation to provide any more information than he already had. And Sam didn't dare disturb him again – another quick glance up at him showed his brow still crinkled in a frown.

Sam had a brief, wild thought, of crawling between Castiel's legs, pushing the laptop aside and nuzzling at his crotch, unbuttoning and unzipping him, taking Castiel into his throat in an attempt to wipe the frown from his face.

He pushed that thought away, as well – Castiel had never indicated that he wanted Sam to show any initiative in that direction, which probably meant that he didn't want it.

Best to just sit quietly, until instructed otherwise. Sam closed his eyes.

They popped back open a moment later, when he heard the soft _snick_ of the laptop closing.

Castiel stretched hugely in his chair, rolling his head to dissipate the tightness in his neck. Sam wasn't surprised – Castiel had been working the entire time Sam had napped, so it was hardly surprising that Castiel might be a little stiff. Castiel stood, and moved towards the back of the plane. “Come.”

Sam got to his feet and followed. Castiel opened the door at the end of the hallway, and behind it was a luxurious bedroom. He began unbuttoning his cuffs, and stripped out of his dress shirt and pants.

Assuming he wanted Sam naked, as well, Sam hesitantly pulled the tunic up over his head, and stepped out of the drawstring bottoms, folding them neatly into a pile on the floor.

Castiel collapsed face-first on the bed, naked, with a soft grunt. Clearly, he was even more tired than Sam had thought he was.

Something had definitely gotten into Sam's head, and he wasn't sure exactly what it was, but rather than wait for Castiel's instructions, Sam moved to the bed, straddling Castiel's lower back, and bringing his hands down on the knotted muscles in Castiel's upper back.

Castiel seemed as though he was about to growl out a reprimand, but when Sam's fingers dug into his tense muscles, the growl turned into a low groan.

Sam had always thought he was pretty good at massage, and now, feeling the tension leave Castiel, under Sam's hands, that belief was rather strongly reinforced. He stroked his hands over Castiel's flawless skin and dark ink, actually enjoying watching Castiel relax and unwind beneath him, all but purring in pleasure. Sam dared to feel a prickle of pride at his abilities. 

Eventually, feeling no more knots or tightness, Sam somewhat regretfully carefully climbed off Castiel and slipped off the bed. He was in the process of lying down on the floor beside the bed when Castiel spoke.

“Get up here.”

Trembling, Sam moved to lie down next to Castiel. He assumed that Castiel wanted to snuggle him, and settled into a 'little spoon' position. Castiel pulled himself tight against Sam's back, a possessive arm tight around Sam's waist, his lips against the back of Sam's neck.

Sam wasn't sure if this was going to be a prelude to a blowjob, or getting fucked. But all that happened was that it didn't take long for Castiel to relax behind him, his breathing slowing and deepening as he fell asleep.

Despite the fact that Sam had already napped, he was still sorely weakened by his time in the basement, and followed Castiel into sleep not long after.

 

*

 

When Sam woke, the bed was empty, and the plane didn't seem to be moving. There was bright sunlight through the small windows, and when he sat up, Sam could see an expanse of tarmac, and some small buildings.

“Get dressed. We're here.” Castiel was fixing his tie as he walked into the bedroom.

Sam quickly donned his tunic and pants. After a quick scrub of his teeth and use of the washroom, Castiel led the way from the plane, his hand grasping Sam's warmly.

The moment they left the shelter of the plane's entrance, Sam was struck by the heat. A warm, sultry kind of heat – not the dry, searing type that California was so famous for. This one was somehow more enveloping, and the air smelled almost sweet, as though there were flowers nearby, though Sam couldn't see any.

A long, black limousine waited for them, and though Sam tried to peek at the license plate to get a feel for where they might be, he didn't quite manage. He was nervous during the drive, despite Castiel's hand stroking through his hair.

He could see, through the deeply tinted windows, gently rolling hills. Buildings went by too quickly for him to get a feel for what they were, and became more sparse the further into the drive they got. There were several fields with tidy rows of vines, supported by some sort of lattice, but again, they went past too quickly for Sam to get a good look.

The limousine slowed, and pulled into a long, curving driveway, creeping along at little more than a crawl. Sam stared open-mouthed at the house, which was low, and long, and clearly old. There were curved archways and large windows. The word 'palazzo' popped into Sam's mind, to describe it, though he wasn't quite sure why. The house was surrounded by the same rolling hills and fields of vines.

 _Giulia_ was standing just outside the door, a smile on her face, and Jonah's leash in her hand.

“Come.” Castiel nudged Sam into movement. Sam hadn't wanted to move. Despite his friend being there, Giulia scared him, and he didn't really want to be anywhere near her.

Sam felt a quick spike of not wanting _Castiel_ anywhere near her, too.

When they reached their hosts, Giulia and Castiel kissed and hugged. Sam kept his eyes resolutely fixed on the worn stone under his bare feet.

“Come in, come in! You must be tired, after your flight. I've got just the thing for jet lag. Jonah, darling, go into the courtyard, and take Sam with you.”

Castiel pulled Sam close for a moment, murmuring into his ear. “Pets don't stand, in this household, they kneel and crawl. Nor are they dressed. Jonah will help you get settled.” A swift kiss, and Castiel pressing down on Sam's shoulder. Sam sank to his knees, and followed Jonah into and through the cooler darkness of the home.

There were miles of satin-finished hardwood, and ancient stone walls. The furniture was sleek and modern, much like Castiel's was. Jonah led Sam to a rear entrance. Just before it, he turned and smiled at Sam. He plucked at the sleeve of Sam's shirt, and at his pants, and tapped the shelf of a small cubbyhole beside the door.

His meaning was clear. Sam stripped, folded his clothes neatly, and placed them on the shelf. From underneath, Jonah extricated a pair of kneepads, which he passed to Sam. Sam strapped them on gratefully, as his knees were already beginning to ache on the hardwood floor.

Jonah pushed open the door, and Sam's jaw dropped.

There was an expanse of plush grass, surrounded by tall stone walls, shrubs and flowers at their base. There was a small pool in the middle, steps from the shallow end leading into deeper, bluer waters. A flagstoned patio, with a dining table and umbrella. One of the rear corners of the yard had a fabric awning drawn over it, and Jonah led the way into the shade beneath it.

Jonah sat cross-legged on the grass and waited for Sam to do the same. Though it was hot, there was a breeze, and the shade was a blessing. Jonah's skin was sun-bronzed, but Sam was sickly pale after his time in the basement.

Jonah leaned into Sam's side, and kissed his cheek quickly. “It's good to see you. Are you well? You don't look very well...” Jonah hesitated.

“I... I made a really bad mistake, and was p-punished for it.” Sam's voice was a little choked.

Jonah crawled into Sam's lap and hugged him tight, his voice a whisper in Sam's ear. “And is your punishment over? Did you learn?”

Sam nodded, his arms coming around Jonah's back, pressing his face into the crook of Jonah's neck.

“I understand. Mistress's punishments can be... can be harsh, as well. But they're for our betterment, to help us become more perfect for them.”

Sam couldn't help the shiver, remembering how every breath had been a struggle through the tiny hole in the hood, the taste of the drugs and the feel of blood trickling down his thighs.

 _'More perfect.'_ That was what he wanted, right? To be more perfect for his _gospodin_? Of _course_ that was what he wanted. He pressed his lips to the warm skin of Jonah's neck, a lingering kiss. A thought suddenly occurred to him.

“Jonah, where are we?”

“Italy. Sicily. Near Nicosia. The home of my Mistress.”

 _Italy._ Sam wondered briefly how they'd managed an intercontinental flight without having to deal with passports and customs officials, before realizing that Castiel's position, and Jonah's Mistress's, apparently, put them far above and beyond the reach of the laws that applied to everyone else.

Case in point: his current situation.

Giving himself a mental shake, he pulled back from Jonah a little, and shot him a shaky smile. The one he got in return was radiant.

“Would you like a drink? Or perhaps a swim?” Jonah reached towards a small shelf behind him, which contained a small number of objects. A bottle of water, a few foil packets, and the bottle of sunscreen, which he grabbed. “We'd best get some sunscreen on you. Mistress would whip me bloody if I let you burn.” The corner of Jonah's mouth quirked up into a smile.

Sam let Jonah smooth the cream over his skin. Afterwards, the boys moved into the sunshine and basked for a time, until the heat drove them both into the pool. The water was a little warmer than Castiel's rooftop infinity pool, but it was still cool and refreshing.

After their swim, they retreated back into the shade. Sam was feeling a little overwhelmed by all of it – the warmth, the sunshine, the grass. He laid back, closing his eyes, and before he knew it, he had dozed off.

 

*

 

A gentle nudge against his ribs woke him. Sam jolted out of sleep, uncertain, for a moment, of where he was.

He was flat on his back, on the grass, under the awning he'd fallen asleep under. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows. Jonah was sitting, curled up beside him, and Giulia and Castiel were looking down at him. Castiel was smiling, but Giulia's face was neutral.

“Come, dear one. There's something you and Jonah are to do, before having a little food.” Castiel's voice was calm, but in a way that made Sam's heart stutter. He nodded his agreement.

The two owners led the way back inside, and down a long, narrow ramp with multiple switchbacks, into a basement. It occurred suddenly to Sam that the property was likely a vineyard, and the basement used for storage. His belief was reinforced when he saw several barrels lined up along the left-hand wall – that would explain the ramp, for ease of moving the barrels. 

It was simply convenient that it made getting into the cellar easier for pets on their knees.

When he turned his head towards the right, his heart stopped, and he froze.

There was a sort of movie set there. Several video cameras, directed at it. Plain white furniture, thin white carpet... and a metal stand in the middle, almost identical to the one that Jonah had been strapped into, at Castiel's party, for the ease of the multiple people fucking him. Bolted to the floor.

Jonah gave him an urgent nudge, and Sam continued his slow descent, until both boys reached the basement floor.

A number of men emerged from one of the doorways, wearing headsets, and moved to the cameras, making adjustments, talking amongst themselves in a language Sam didn't know.

Jonah's whisper was urgent, in Sam's ear. “Whatever happens, it's okay, all right? I forgive you. You don't have a choi...” Jonah's last words were choked off as one of the men grabbed the back of his collar and yanked him backwards by it.

Sam jolted when he realized Castiel had crouched down beside him. Sam stared at him, his eyes wide and terrified.

“Jonah has a particular... audience, who enjoy his activities. Tonight, you're going to assist him with a new production.” Castiel's voice was silky.

Sam's eyes darted over to Jonah, who had been pulled into a sort of shower stall in the corner of the room, forced to his hands and knees. It took him a moment to realize that the swelling of Jonah's tummy was from the water from the enema that the men were forcing into him.

Sam clamped his eyes tight.

“You're going to do exactly as you're told, hmm?” Castiel stroked Sam's hair back, out of his face.

Every muscle in Sam's body was rigid, in an attempt to be _good_. To not scream, or flee, or cry. To not grab Jonah and run as far and as fast as he could. Sam forced himself to nod.

“Good boy. Come, let's get you prepared, hmm?” Castiel smiled.

Sam was immensely grateful that it was Castiel who was helping him, and not the nameless men, who were being so harsh with Jonah. Through peeks, Sam saw Jonah subjected to a second enema, and then having his ass filled with a disgusting amount of lube, followed by a plug that Sam was stunned could even fit in a boy as slender as Jonah was.

Jonah was limp and accepting, his eyes closed, as the men worked on him. It broke Sam's heart.

Castiel secured Sam in a steel cock cage, anchored by his piercing. A metal butt plug was inserted, but he wasn't subjected to the harsh enemas. Which meant... which meant...

 _Which means you'll be topping,_ Sam's subconscious helpfully offered.

 _But I'm caged._ Sam glanced down at it.

And then Sam saw the belt in Castiel's hands. A strap-on harness, with a _huge_ black rubber dildo already in place. The thing was almost as wide as Sam's fist, and nearly as long as his forearm.

Terror clawed at Sam's insides. He tried to edge backwards, away from Castiel and the harness, but a look from Castiel froze him in place. Castiel held his gaze for several long moments, as though daring Sam to move, and his gaze softened when Sam didn't.

“Good boy.” Castiel took his time getting Sam into the harness, adjusting buckles and straps, so that his cage was shoved down and under the fake cock.

An earbud was tucked into Sam's left ear. He heard English, thickly accented, but understandable. “Thumbs up if you can hear me.”

Sam raised his left hand in a thumbs up. One of the Italian men nodded to him.

“Sam?” Castiel's voice drew his attention back. In Castiel's hands was shiny black rubber... a hood. Sam started to hyperventilate.

“Shh, shh, dear one. Look. It has a mesh of holes for your eyes, and for your mouth, all right? You're not to speak with it on.” Castiel demonstrated, and Sam calmed just a little, seeing the rows of small holes. At least he wouldn't be asphyxiating.

Castiel smoothed Sam's hair back, and helped maneuver the hood so that it was seated properly over Sam's head. When Sam realized it didn't impair his breathing in the slightest, he drew in a long, shuddering breath. He could even see fairly well through the holes over his eyes. Castiel gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 

Next were the long rubber gloves, black, hot and tight, which came to just above Sam's elbows. Castiel was cursing softly, under his breath, as he tried to get them up and into position. One of the men brought a jar of baby powder, which Castiel dusted over his skin, and which made getting the gloves on _much_ easier.

Sam had gotten so caught up in his own preparations that he had failed to notice Jonah, who was kneeling at the edge of the white carpet, his head lowered, waiting.

“Quiet on the set!!” Thickly accented English, and several of the men chuckled, but a ringing silence fell. Sam could see Jonah's chest heaving – probably in fear.

One of the Italian men grabbed Sam's upper arm, and moved him to where he wanted him. There were men at the cameras, a few more with hand-held cameras, and a couple with boom microphones.

“You're going to be harsh with him. Understood?” The tinny voice in his earbud. Sam hesitated for a long moment, before nodding. “You screw this up, and we'll do it as many times as we have to.”

Sam choked, and forced himself to nod again.

“Move to him, grab the back of his collar. Haul him over to the breeding stand and buckle him in. Tight.”

Sam wavered, sickened and horrified. The hand released his arm, and someone shoved him in the direction of Jonah, who still hadn't moved.

Sam took a few faltering steps towards him, into the line of sight of the multitude of cameras.

 _”I forgive you.”_ Sam heard the echo of Jonah's whisper.

Sam would have to keep his apologies to himself, until such time as they were permitted. As it was, this was going to happen, whether Sam wanted it to or not. And if he could make it convincing, they'd only have to do it once.

Sam steadied himself a little, and moved to Jonah, jamming his gloved fingers under the back of Jonah's collar. Jonah choked, but allowed himself to be pulled to the bench.

The rubber, Sam thought, somehow made all of it so much worse. If he could just offer Jonah a gentle touch, it'd go so far towards soothing both of them... but that wasn't what Jonah's _'audience'_ was interested in. At all.

Sam finished with the buckles, and hesitated.

“Move behind him and pull the plug out, hard. Play with his ass. Finger him.”

Sam did as he was told. He moved back behind Jonah, the men with the handheld cameras circling like so many dragonflies. He pulled the plug sharply from Jonah's hole, and watched him gape and flutter for a moment, before running slick fingers along the edge, and inside him. Jonah whimpered.

“Use two fingers on each hand. Pull him open for the cameras.”

Sam did, and one of the cameramen swooped in, getting an up-close shot of Jonah's slick, pink insides.

“Fist him.”

Sam managed to silence himself, before the choked groan broke from his lips. He slipped four fingers inside Jonah, who took them with remarkable ease. He pulled back a little and slipped his thumb into position, rocking his hand back and forth.

Sam watched Jonah tremble in his bonds.

_”I forgive you.”_

A slightly harder push, and Sam's hand slipped inside Jonah. It was hot and crushingly tight, even through the rubber. Jonah shuddered, his back and chest still heaving, whimpering out tiny, hurt noises. A boom mike was just above him, to be certain to catch them all.

“Move your hand. Twist it. Gentle in and out.”

Sam was surprised, but incredibly grateful for the 'gentle' as part of that command. His knuckles brushed over Jonah's prostate, and Jonah shuddered in something other than fear and pain. One of the hand-helds moved in to catch the sight of Jonah leaking precome from his caged cock.

“Pull out, carefully, and line up that cock with his hole.”

Sam eased his hand out of Jonah, leaving him gaping. He grabbed the shaft of the rubber cock, and set the tip against Jonah's stretched rim.

“Put that in him. All the way. Hard.”

Sam hesitated, trembling. He couldn't.

“Now!!” The voice in Sam's ear barked.

_”I forgive you.”_

Sam did it. Jonah howled, the dildo buried to its hilt in his ass. Sam stayed frozen as Jonah's cry subsided into hacking sobs.

“Fuck him. Hard and deep. Like you're trying to hurt him.”

Sam pulled back, only to pound into Jonah again. Jonah's sobs got louder. Sam wasn't sure he'd ever hated himself more.

“Harder!!”

Sam clenched his hands hard on Jonah's hips, clenched his eyes shut, and _slammed_ forward, into Jonah. Felt the immobile bench on the other side of Jonah's hips, Jonah caught, pinned, against it.

“Spread your legs a little. We want a shot of your cage.”

Sam shifted is knees a little wider, and felt the presence of the cameraman right behind him. He flushed red, under his hood.

“Pound the bitch. I'll tell you when to stop.”

_”I forgive you.”_

Sam pounded Jonah for what felt like forever. He fought nausea as, through quick glances, he saw the lube oozing out of him turn from a creamy white, to a light pink, to streaked with red, like a peppermint candy.

“Pull out, hard. Play with his prolapse.”

Sam's hips stuttered to a stop. He froze.

“Now!!”

Sam couldn't physically make himself do it.

“I'm going to whip you fucking bloody if you don't _pull out hard, now!!_ ”

And that terrified Sam into motion. He yanked the cock out of Jonah's ass, and sure enough, Jonah prolapsed, wailing. His insides, which had been a glistening pink before they started, were an angry red, seeping blood and lube, looking almost like a rose.

“Play with it!!”

Sam reached trembling fingers to it, stroking along the edge and hesitantly dipping in, in the middle. It twitched under his fingers.

“Give him a hand getting that back inside.”

Sam brought both hands up on either side, and gave a gentle push – Jonah doing most of the work - and it vanished back up inside him. Sam sat back on his heels, hard.

_”I forgive you.”_

Which was fine, and all, but Sam wasn't sure he could ever forgive himself.

Someone wrapped a tight hand around Sam's arm, pulling him backwards and out of frame, while the cameras circled Jonah, catching his wretched form, his pathetic whimpers and tears, the backs of his thighs streaked with blood and lube.

Some of Sam's blank shock started to fade, and tears pricked, burning, in his eyes.

Sam was on his knees, Castiel's hands on him, removing the harness, peeling off the gloves and hood, under which Sam's cheeks were slicked with tears. Sam couldn't stop shaking.

“That was good. That's printable.” The voice in his earbud.

Not being able to stand it even a moment longer, Sam clawed at his ear until the earbud fell, and he was rid of the voice that had told him to do such sickening, horrible things to his friend.

It took him a long while to realize that Castiel was murmuring reassurances to him.

“You did so well. I'm so proud of you. My little prince.” Castiel's lips, pressed warm against Sam's temple.

Every single little thing was so profoundly _wrong_ that Sam didn't even know where to begin.

The men had unstrapped Jonah from the bench. Unable even to crawl, Jonah was carried to and then dropped into the shower. What seemed to be cold water was scrubbed over his skin, and all he could do was shiver. One of the men picked him up once they were done, and carried him through a doorway, out of Sam's sight. 

Without even realizing he was doing it, Sam was leaning, pulling towards where Jonah had vanished. Castiel chuckled.

“Go ahead. Go to him. You two can share a cell for the evening. Someone will be by with food.”

On his hands and knees, Sam scrambled across the floor, following. It didn't take long until Sam found him.

Jonah's cell was miserable. It couldn't have been more than five feet by six, about half the floor taken up by a thin foam mat. It was damp and dirty, with cold stone walls and floor. There was a small one-piece toilet and sink, and a roll of toilet paper, and that was it.

There was a man standing beside the door to Jonah's cell. Sam bolted inside, and the man closed and locked the door behind him with an echoing bang.

Jonah was curled up in the far corner of the cell, arms wrapped around his legs, eyes unseeing.

Sam moved to him, but was hesitant to touch. His tears, which had stopped, restarted again in earnest. Jonah's face was blank.

Sam wished he had a blanket, something, anything to wrap around the poor boy. He settled on himself – when he pulled at Jonah's arms to move him, Jonah went. Sam arranged them so that he was sitting in the corner of the room, his back against the cold stone, and Jonah's back against his chest, Sam's arms wrapped around him.

_”I forgive you.”_

Sam lowered his forehead to Jonah's shoulder, and cried.


	18. Saviour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *blows kisses to all my wonderful, kind readers*
> 
> Your generous feedback keeps me writing.
> 
> Think of this as an apology for the last chapter. <3

Sam rocked Jonah, slowly and carefully, for a very long time. Someone came by and threw a handful of foil packets to the floor of their cell, but Sam ignored them, in favour of gently stroking Jonah's hair, and murmuring soft words of support into his ear.

After what felt like hours, Sam felt Jonah begin to stir. Sam loosened his grip a little, and kept up the soft rocking motion.

Sam couldn't see it, but Jonah blinked several times, frowned, and then smiled, a hand coming up to cover one of Sam's.

Sam was surprised to hear a soft chuckle from Jonah.

“I... I don't think I've ever been woken up quite so nicely, in my cell before.”

Sam hugged him tight, before releasing him.

Jonah turned, nudged Sam's legs so they were cross-legged, and sat sideways in Sam's lap, before blushing furiously.

Sam kissed his cheek, wondering what the blush was about.

“S-sorry about the lube, and... and stuff.” The mat under Sam's thighs was sticky and slick with it. “They'll come in a bit later and hose everything down.”

At Jonah's apology, all of Sam's heartbreak about what he'd been forced to do broke through, all at once. A sob tore from his chest, feeling as though it'd taken a piece of his soul with it. Tears poured down his face.

Jonah was frantic, his hands moving over Sam's skin, pressing kisses to Sam's lips, his cheeks, his eyes, his forehead.

“No, no, Sam! Sam...” Sam could barely hear Jonah's whisper over his own sobs. “Sam... it's... it's okay. It's okay. I'm okay.”

Under the gentle touches and gentle words, and Jonah's obvious forgiveness, Sam began to calm a little. His sobs died out, into little hitching hiccups. Jonah reached an arm around Sam's back, and rubbed warmly.

“Ooh!” Jonah spotted the packs of food, leaned towards them, and snagged them. There were six in all, pairs of three different sizes. Jonah slid off of Sam's lap, and passed one of each size to Sam.

Sam wiped at his tear-streaked face, watching Jonah start with the smallest pouch, so he did, as well, mirroring Jonah ripping off a corner and squeezing the contents into his mouth. It was the dark-green paste, and was violently bitter in Sam's mouth. Like the bitterness of kale or spinach, somehow concentrated down to their essences.

“Trust me. Eat it.” Jonah whispered, eyes wide.

Sam forced himself to, knowing it was probably wise. Then the jerky, then the utterly flavourless hardtack. It was, overall, truly awful, but he tried to keep his disgust to himself.

He tried to keep the flare of fury at Giulia feeding Jonah this, and nothing but this, to himself as well, but he wasn't sure how successful he was.

As the boys were finishing, a man came to the door of the cell. He held one hand out, as though expecting something.

“Stand up, facing the wall, hands up against it, spread legs.” Jonah hissed quickly at Sam, before climbing to his feet. Jonah picked up his one roll of toilet tissue, stumbled to the door and and handed it to the man, who passed it to someone in the hallway.

Sam did as Jonah instructed.

Jonah moved to stand beside Sam, groaning in pain, his position identical, pressing his hands hard against the wall.

Suddenly, there was a blast of water against Sam's back. It felt like a goddamned firehose, the water tepid, but pounding against his skin. He turned his head to see, and got a faceful of water for his troubles. He spluttered and coughed, trying to get it out of his nose.

The water moved away, and Sam forced his eyes open just long enough to see Jonah brace his forearms against the wall, back arching under the pressure from the water, face straight ahead and stoic. He'd obviously been through this many, many times.

“Turn!!”

Jonah turned, pressing his back against the wall, and lifting his arms over his head, sparing Sam a glance. Sam did the same, and the water beat against his front, from his chest down to his feet. The same treatment followed for Jonah.

The man with the hose pressure-sprayed the foam sleeping mat, set the hose aside, and had the toilet tissue handed back to him. Jonah collapsed to his knees, and crawled exhaustedly to the man, who passed it to him.

Sam barely caught Jonah's whispered, “Thank you, Sir.”

The man said nothing, and then there was nothing but silence from the hallway.

Jonah set the toilet tissue carefully on the edge of the sink, which was mostly dry, before crawling back onto the mat. Sam let himself slide down the wall, so that he was sitting beside him, a little shellshocked.

Jonah caught the look on Sam's face, and smiled a little wryly. “That's what passes for a shower, sometimes, when Mistress can't be bothered.”

Sam simply blinked, too overwhelmed, too... everything. His eyes filled with tears, his skin was stinging from the hose, and he was still feeling a deep burn in his glutes, from how long he'd been forced to...

Sam lowered his head, clutching handfuls of his own sopping hair.

“Sam, please.” Jonah pressed himself along Sam's side. “Please.”

Sam looked doubtfully at Jonah, out of the corner of his eye.

Jonah had a sweet, apologetic smile on his face. “It's okay. We're okay. We really are. All that was was a little fresh material for the website. Mistress has let me know, very physically, that subscriptions were down, and you just happened to be handy.”

_Fresh material... for the website??_

Sam lurched forward and vomited hard, managing to get it onto the stone floor rather than the mat. Jonah rubbed his lower back soothingly.

For the first time, Sam noticed the cheap plastic cup, as Jonah, after giving Sam one final squeeze, used water from the sink to rinse the vomit away, down the drain in the floor.

Sam rubbed a shaking hand across the back of his mouth. “I'm... I'm sorry.”

“There's nothing to be sorry about. Though you'll probably regret wasting your food.” Jonah sighed, and passed Sam a full cup of water. “Rinse and spit down the grate, you'll feel better.”

Jonah was right – Sam did.

Afterwards, the two boys curled up together on the narrow mat, and fell asleep despite themselves.

 

*

 

Sam woke to a loud, metallic _bang_. He felt Jonah jerk awake beside him.

One of the guards grated out something in Italian. Sam felt Jonah scramble into a kneel beside him.

“Sam, come on, we've been requested.” Jonah pulled at his arm.

It took Sam, still aching in the worst ways, a moment to get into a kneel himself. Jonah's hands smoothed Sam's mussed hair back, out of his face, and he kissed Sam's cheek quickly.

The man led the two crawling boys out of the cell, up the ramp, and through the house. Castiel and Giulia were in a den of sorts, both of them relaxed and reading, with glasses of wine on the tables nearby.

Sam knelt beside the chair Castiel was relaxing in, keeping his eyes on the floor. Jonah did the same, beside Giulia.

Sam felt a gentle hand land on the top of his head, and then recoil.

“Really? You'd leave your pet's hair tangled and knotted like this?” Castiel's voice was gently disapproving.

“Jonah's hair is kept short. It's not an issue.” Giulia's voice was cool.

“Well, I'll need a brush, please.” A gentle hand on the back of Sam's neck guided him to sit in front of Castiel's chair, his back against the soft plushness.

Giulia barked out a command to one of her men in Italian, and it didn't take long before one was returning, passing a hairbrush to Castiel.

Sam let his eyes flicker closed, and sagged a little, as Castiel worked on his hair.

“You know, I believe that's the first time that hairbrush has actually been used on hair. Usually, it's used to tan Jonah's backside.” Giulia chuckled.

Sam shot a glance at Jonah, who was blushing furiously.

“I'd imagine that's a sight to see.” Castiel smiled.

“It is. He's quite beautiful, crying and squirming. Would you like to see?”

Sam felt Castiel shift in his chair. Tangles worked out, Castiel smoothed a hand down Sam's hair, finishing with a gentle squeeze on Sam's nape. The touch grounded and soothed Sam.

“Perhaps our pets can put on our own, private show. Would yours do it, if you commanded it?” Giulia glanced at Sam.

“Of course he would.” Castiel's voice carried a hint of coolness as well.

Sam stiffened as Castiel passed him the hairbrush. Sam saw Jonah's hand twitch, where it was resting against his thigh.

“All right. Jonah, arrange yourself ass-up over the ottoman, darling.”

Sam watched as Jonah moved a plush ottoman to the middle of the empty area before the two owners' chairs. Jonah's face was eerily blank as he positioned himself as instructed. His chest was pressed against the top of it, and his arms to the sides, gripping its legs white-knuckle tight. Jonah even spread his legs, baring the delicate skin on the insides of his thighs to whatever was coming.

Castiel gave Sam a gentle nudge, as Sam didn't seem to be able to move. Sam knee-walked over to where Jonah was positioned.

Sam prayed in the back of his head that Jonah's seemingly endless forgiveness extended to this, as well.

“Does Jonah need a warmup?” Castiel asked softly.

The question made Giulia laugh wholeheartedly. Sam glanced at Castiel for long enough to see a small frown mar his features, before returning his attention to Jonah.

“Give his skin a little colour, _solnishko_ , before going harder.” Castiel's voice was gently encouraging.

Sam nodded, tightening his grip on the handle of the hairbrush. Jonah's butt was perfect, round like a peach, the skin beautifully golden. Sam rested his right hand against Jonah's lower back, feeling Jonah shiver beneath the touch. Sam's eyes darted up to Castiel again, and Castiel was smiling warmly down at him.

A surreptitious glance at Giulia showed a look of annoyance on her face.

Sam quickly returned his attention to Jonah. By way of apology, he pressed Jonah's lower back a little harder, and then lifted the pressure. He smacked Jonah's left cheek with the backside of the brush, watching Jonah's butt jiggle, and a warm, pink patch be raised on his skin.

Sam heard Jonah's audible sigh. It almost sounded like... relief. It gave Sam the courage he needed to continue.

Sam kept up the controlled force, and alternated cheeks, giving Jonah a pattern that he could follow, so he'd know what was coming next. Jonah was limp over the ottoman as the skin of his ass started to glow.

“Do his thighs as well, dear one.” Castiel's voice was kind.

Sam obeyed. At the first strike against the untouched skin of his left thigh, Jonah stiffened, but relaxed again when Sam was careful to keep up his rhythmic pattern and controlled blows.

“Harder.” Giulia commanded, over the rim of her wineglass.

Sam returned to Jonah's ass, using a little more force. It made Jonah whimper and squirm on the ottoman, and Sam pressed harder on his lower back, in an attempt to keep him still, and to encourage him that he could do this.

It didn't seem to help much, but Sam hadn't been granted permission to slow or soften his blows, so he kept up the force. Jonah started to shake beneath him.

“Does your pet honestly not know how to spank someone?” Giulia shot at Castiel.

“He does.”

Sam clearly heard the reprimand and command in Castiel's calm response, and said a quick, apologetic prayer in his head, before bringing the hairbrush slamming down on the untouched skin of Jonah's inner thigh.

Jonah yelped, and burst into tears, trying to squirm out from under the grip Sam had on him.

Hating every moment of this, Sam continued with the force he'd just applied, randomly across Jonah's ass and thighs, his own eyes filling with tears, as well.

Sam hadn't been given permission to stop, and so, he couldn't. He watched the dark red welts rise, and deep purple. Jonah was in hysterics, sobbing, flailing and scratching, trying to get away. 

“I think that's enough, _solnishko_.” Castiel's voice, quiet.

Sam immediately dropped the hairbrush, breathing hard and fighting down nausea.

“Well. I almost wish I'd have filmed that. It might've gotten us a couple of dollars, on the website, from the people who enjoy that sort of thing.” Giulia's voice was mocking.

Jonah was limp and twitching over the ottoman, but he apparently heard Giulia's words, because he blushed blotchily red in embarrassment.

“Come here, dear one.” Castiel held out a hand, gesturing Sam to between his spread thighs.

As reluctant as he was to leave Jonah in the state he was, he didn't dare disobey a direct order. He moved away from the boy over the ottoman, into the warm safety of the vee of Castiel's spread legs, clutching his right thigh.

Sam risked a glance at Giulia, over the curve of Castiel's leg. She was smiling down at her pet, clearly enjoying the state he was in. He turned his gaze up to Castiel, certain that the plea in them was plain as day.

Something shifted, behind Castiel's eyes. He took a sip of wine, and then another.

“So, you say Jonah's website hasn't had the traffic you were hoping, hmm?” Castiel glanced over at Giulia.

“Yes.” Giulia frowned down at her pet. “I think it's simply that it's been up for too long. There isn't anything left that hasn't already been done to him, so it's difficult to keep interest up. He isn't even earning his keep.”

Jonah, still shaking, brought his arms up and folded them, hiding his face and shame in them.

“Almost time for a new pet, hmm?” Castiel's voice was soft, but Jonah froze. Sam wasn't even sure he was breathing.

Did... did that mean that Castiel was suggesting Giulia ought to kill Jonah, to put him out of his misery?? Jonah's mistress had promised a quick death, and if Jonah wasn't of any use to her any more...

Giulia sighed deeply. “I suppose. Alastair has been by, with some beautiful new boys, only recently broken.”

Jonah hauled in a deep breath, and started to sob. Deep, wrenching sobs. Sam wasn't sure he'd ever heard anything that sounded so broken. Sam's tears started up again, in sympathy with Jonah's, and already mourning the loss of his friend, whose fate seemed unavoidable.

“I'd be happy to take him.” Castiel's voice was light.

Sam's breath stopped in his chest. Jonah didn't seem to have heard, and continued to cry.

“Why? He has nothing left to give, except for perhaps his life, in one final film.” The corner of Giulia's mouth curved into a smile.

“I've got a bit of a soft spot for lost causes.” Castiel's hand stroked Sam's hair.

Sam was wired tight, uncertain if the worst or the best was coming...

“All right. Take him. I'll need his cell for Austin, anyway.” Giulia sighed and smiled. “The boy, I swear, Castiel, looks like an angel, with milk-white skin, blonde hair and blue eyes...”

Jonah's sobs subsided a little, his body simply not having the strength to keep them up. Sam was certain he hadn't heard any of the conversation, and didn't know he'd just been given a new life. He was limp over the ottoman, every muscle in his body having simply given up.

“When are you taking delivery?” Castiel sounded mildly curious.

“As soon as you'll take Jonah off my hands.” Giulia chuckled.

Jonah froze, having heard the final statement of the conversation. His breathing hitched.

Sam longed to rush over to him, to wrap him in a tight hug and pepper him with kisses, to tell him how much better everything was going to be. He sat utterly still, under Castiel's hand.

“I'll get them a room, in town, if you can spare the manpower to guard it. It'll keep Sam and Jonah out of our hair, while we conduct our meetings, and while you get your new boy settled in.” Castiel sighed and yawned.

Giulia looked like a kid on Christmas eve.

 

*

 

They'd both been dressed in the simple scrubs, before leaving Giulia's home. Sam pulled a mostly out-of-it Jonah into the room, supporting him as he stumbled on weak legs. The door was locked behind them, by a guard nearly twice the size of Sam.

The room was fairly basic, but had luxuries that neither boy had experienced in a very long time. There was a real, actual bed, a bathroom with a tub and shower, and even a small television.

Sam sat Jonah on the edge of the bed, wincing when Jonah winced, and knelt before him, framing Jonah's face in his hands. Sam was worried, still, by the blankness of Jonah's stare.

“Jonah, can you hear me?” Sam stroked his thumbs over Jonah's cheekbones.

Jonah blinked, blinked again, and nodded.

“D'you... do you understand what's happening?” Sam's voice was shaky.

“M-mistress. She... she g-gave me to your m-master. W-when...” Jonah's whisper was choked. “W-when do you think he... he's going to k-kill...”

Jonah's tears started up again.

“No, no no no no no!” Sam clutched Jonah's head. “No, _gospodin_ isn't going to _kill_ you, he's going to _keep_ you, like he keeps m-me.” Sam wiped at Jonah's tears, and tried on a shaky smile.

Jonah didn't look relieved, he simply looked confused. “B-but... a quick death...”

Sam took a deep, bracing breath. “Nobody... nobody's going to be dying. _Gospodin_ is... is going to take care of b-both of us. I don't...”

Sam paused, flashing on cold concrete, stifling leather, rape, and brutal beatings. He hoped with every fibre of his being that that wasn't what waited for Jonah, back at Castiel's compound. He forced himself to continue.

“I don't know if _gospodin_ will let us stay together, but... but if you're good, he'll n-never treat you like your M-mistress has.” Sam swallowed hard.

It was a fine line for Sam to walk – he didn't want to further upset Jonah, but he needed to try to make him understand. And despite how she'd quite literally thrown him away, he wasn't sure where Jonah's loyalty might lie.

Jonah simply stared blankly ahead of him.

Sam sighed, desperately anxious, and pressed his forehead against Jonah's. Both boys were silent for a long time. When Jonah spoke, Sam could barely hear him.

“I... I wasn't g-good enough for M-mistress. I c-can't be good enough for your m-master. H-he should...” Jonah swallowed hard, and straightened his shoulders a little, as though deciding. “He should just k-kill me.”

What was left of Sam's heart shattered into dust. “Jonah, _no_. You... you tried your best, you did everything you were told...” Tears started from Sam's eyes.

Jonah's eyes dropped to the carpet. He shook his head, no, and then sagged, his eyes clenching shut.

Sam pulled him, gently, off the edge of the bed, to kneel right where Sam was kneeling. Sam pressed as much of himself as he could against Jonah, in a fierce hug, Jonah limp against him.

Jonah, Sam thought, seemed crushed. As though his entire reason for living had upped and vanished. And Sam supposed it had.

How could you even begin to help someone that lost?

Sam thought that starting small was perhaps the best path.

“Jonah?” Sam's voice was soft, in Jonah's ear. “How... how about if we have a bath? Would... would you like that? Would that be okay?” Sam kissed Jonah's temple.

Sam barely felt Jonah shrug, in his tight hug.

“Okay, let's do that. Come on, let's go run a bath.” Sam ended up mostly hauling Jonah to his feet, Jonah leaning heavily against him as they walked to the bathroom. Sam propped him up against the edge of the vanity. “Do you need the washroom?”

A shake of Jonah's head, no.

“All right. Just hang out right there, okay?” Sam turned and knelt, putting the plug in the drain and starting to fill the tub. It wasn't a particularly big tub, but Sam was pretty sure the two of them would kind of fit. He added a squirt of hotel-provided body wash, for some bubbles and the fragrance.

When he felt the tub was full enough, he turned the water off and stood. He moved to stand in front of Jonah, whose head had drooped, and his eyes had closed. Sam cupped his cheek gently, and Jonah's eyes flickered open.

Sam pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Let's get in, okay?”

Jonah nodded.

Sam helped Jonah out of his clothes, and stripped his own quickly, as well. Sam winced at the ghastly purple-black mottled bruises covering Jonah's ass and thighs. He was glad he hadn't made the water too hot, or that would've probably seriously hurt. He wished he had some aspirin or something, anything to make Jonah more comfortable.

Sam helped Jonah step into the tub, and then sat down, Jonah's back against his own chest, his legs bracketing Jonah's. Jonah shivered a little when the water hit his welted skin, but didn't complain. He sat stiffly upright.

Sam snaked an arm around Jonah's tummy, and tugged him towards him. “Sit back against me. Relax.” Sam paused. “You're... we're safe,” he added, uncertain why he'd felt the need to say it.

Jonah did, and Sam was glad to hear a soft sigh from him. He picked up a cloth, and rubbed it gently over Jonah's shoulders, neck, arms...

The more soft, caring touches Sam gave Jonah, the more tension seemed to drop from him. Sam wet Jonah's hair with the cloth, and reached for the tiny bottle of shampoo. Jonah melted against him when Sam massaged it in, all but purring between Sam's legs.

“Don't... don't know the last time I felt something so nice.” Jonah's whisper seemed loud in the quiet bathroom.

Sam took a moment to think about his response. “ _Gospodin_ gives lots of things that feel nice. Baths, towels, fuzzy blankets, comfortable cushions...” Sam paused again, thinking of how different his lodgings were than Jonah's. “Things... things are warm, and safe, and clean and dry. If... if you're good,” he tacked on, as an afterthought.

“I'm always good,” Jonah sighed out, and it made Sam smile. He took his time rinsing the shampoo from Jonah's dark curls.

“I'm always good, but... but not worth my upkeep.” Jonah said abruptly, tensing.

Sam wrapped his arms around Jonah's middle, resting his chin on Jonah's shoulder. “ _Gospodin_ , I think, has a very different idea from your Mistress as to what constitutes 'worth'. It's... it's not about 'earning potential'...” Even thinking about it made Sam shudder. “It's about... about obedience, and silence, and... and calmness, and... and beauty.” Sam swallowed hard.

“Beauty.” Jonah snorted.

“You _are_ beautiful. More beautiful than me, for sure.” Sam retorted.

Jonah just shook his head, in mute disagreement. “I'm... I'm chewed up and spit out. Any... any value I had, I lost a long time ago.” Sam heard him sniffle, and hugged him close.

“Obviously _gospodin_ disagrees. He'd... he'd never have taken you, if he didn't see something in you.” Sam tried to be gently encouraging.

Jonah shook his head again, but something told Sam that maybe, just maybe his words were having a bit of an effect.

 

*

 

The two boys stayed in the tub until the water cooled. Sam rinsed them both off, and then helped Jonah to dry, before drying himself. As loathe as he was to put the simple scrubs back on, he thought it might help Jonah to simply not be naked, exposed and vulnerable, even if they were only permitted them for a short time.

The two boys were settling down onto the bed as the door opened.

A different guard, this time. Harsh words in Italian, and Jonah froze. He nodded, and moved shakily to his feet.

Sam's mouth dropped open in horror as the man grabbed Jonah's upper arm in a vicious grip, and pulled him out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Sam was left alone, his heart hammering in his chest.


	19. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaaaaaat?!? Another chapter??
> 
> Enjoy. :D

As luxurious as his lodgings were, Sam was there alone, and he was desperately worried for his friend. None of it was any comfort in the slightest, and he alternated pacing anxiously with sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching his head.

The door opened again, and the guard came in, bearing a large pizza box, which he tossed carelessly onto the bed, before turning and leaving.

 _Pizza??_ Sam blinked at it. His stomach growled. He opened it with trembling fingers, and found three remaining pieces, pepperoni, and some discarded crusts. His mouth watered, and he took one of the pieces and ate it slowly.

It was cold, and dry, and absolutely delicious. Though he was still hungry, and wanted more, he thought it wise to ration it, and definitely wanted to save some for Jonah, when he returned.

 _If he returns..._ The nasty voice in Sam's head piped up.

 _He will. Gospodin... gospodin promised._ Sam swallowed hard.

Sam was staring blankly out the window at the dull building across the street, the shadows lengthening on the floor when the door opened again.

Jonah was shoved back through it, stumbling, before it closed.

Sam rushed over to him, catching him before he fell.

“Jonah!! Are... are you okay?” Sam noticed the rolled steel collar was missing from his throat. He helped Jonah to sit on the edge of the bed, and Jonah shifted on it, stiffly, moving to lay down on his stomach with a sigh. Sam curled up in front of him, eyes wide and worried. “What happened??”

Jonah gave Sam a shaky smile. “M-medical stuff. They cut off my-my collar and cage, and... and gave me an IV, and some pills, and...” Sam watched Jonah's throat work. “... and they d-did something to m-my legs. I think... I... I hope they t-took out the implants. I'm not sure, though.”

It took Sam a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, he couldn't stop his smile. “See? _Gospodin_ wants you to be healthy, and... and strong. Do... do your legs feel any better?”

Jonah shook his head a little. “They're still kind of numb from the anaesthetic. I'm not sure.”

Suddenly remembering the pizza, Sam grabbed for the box and opened it. “Here! This... have some, it's really good.”

Jonah stared at the remnants of the pizza. He didn't move.

“Eat.” Sam nudged Jonah.

Sam fought back tears when Jonah finally did, at the obvious incredible enjoyment on his face, over a simple piece of cold pizza.

When he was finished the slice, Jonah said, “M-maybe we should save...”

Sam nodded, closing up the box and setting it aside. “I agree.”

Jonah sighed, and relaxed into the embrace of the bed. Sam could only imagine how nice the soft linens felt for him, how pleasant it was to be clean and dry, able to stretch out and be comfortable, and not trapped in the hellish cell in Giulia's basement.

He felt a momentary pang of sadness about the mysterious 'Austin' - the new resident of Jonah's cell - and what awaited him, but the broken boy on the bed in front of him seemed much more important. 

Jonah fell asleep under Sam's gentle touches, clearly a little worn out. After the light had gone from the sky, Sam closed the curtains and turned off the lamp on the bedside table, before laying down pressed against Jonah's side, a loose arm over his lower back.

Jonah murmured something that wasn't in English, snuggling into Sam with a soft sigh, before falling into a deeper sort of sleep.

 

*

 

When Sam woke, he wasn't certain what had caused it. He was on his side, facing Jonah, who was still asleep.

A gentle hand touched his calf.

Sam jolted violently, waking Jonah, who flailed, panicking.

“Shh, shh,“ a familiar, deep, gravelly voice soothed.

 _Gospodin_. The tension dropped from Sam, and he reached out to cuddle Jonah, who was still stiff and breathing hard.

Slowly, both boys pulled themselves together enough to sit up. Castiel was smiling, and Sam shyly returned the smile. Jonah's eyes didn't lift, staying fixed on the rumpled blankets on the bed. He was still wired tight with tension.

“So, Jonah, I'm sure you've heard I'm your new owner, hmm?” Castiel asked, his voice soft. “Well, in a sense.”

Sam frowned, a little confused. Castiel had taken Jonah from Giulia, hadn't he? Surely that made Castiel Jonah's owner...

Castiel lifted a hand and stroked a gentle finger along the edge of Jonah's jaw. Jonah's dark eyes flickered up to him, and then immediately back down, though he didn't move under the touch.

“I say, 'in a sense', because although you belong to me, you also belong to Sam.” Castiel gave Sam a warm smile.

Sam's frown deepened. What the hell did that mean??

“Sam's going to be responsible for a great deal of your day to day care and wellbeing. How each of your days is going to go, Jonah, is going to depend heavily upon how Sam's are going.” Something dark crept into Castiel's smile, and it made Sam's heart stutter.

Castiel turned his gaze onto Sam. “You needn't worry about returning to the cell in the basement, _solnishko_ , because if you do something that warrants it, then Jonah will be going in your stead.”

Sam's mouth dropped open, though nothing came out. 

“And the time he does in the basement, dear one, will be twice as hard as whatever punishment your misbehaviour would have warranted.” Castiel's gaze, serious and calm, was locked on Sam's.

Sam choked. His hand shot out, seeking Jonah's, and clamped tightly down on it. Jonah's eyes were darting between Sam's and Castiel's, uncertain.

“P-p-please, _gospodin_ , d-don't...” Sam started, in a whisper.

Castiel smiled. “Every little prince deserves a whipping boy. And now you have one.”

Tears filled Sam's eyes.

“Aren't you glad you needn't worry about being punished? Thank me, dear one, for ensuring you'll never face the prospect of the cell again.”

Sam was crushed. He'd condemned his closest friend to a life of unending suffering, because he knew he couldn't be as perfect as Castiel asked him to be. He'd saved Jonah from one life of horrors, to drop him directly into another.

Perhaps a quick death would have been kinder.

“T-thank you, _gospodin_.” The words were bitter in Sam's mouth.

Sam lowered his head and cried. Castiel smiled at both boys, before rising, turning, and leaving the room.

 

*

 

Sam felt Jonah's hands stroking over his skin and hair, heard soft, whispered words, but nothing managed to make it through Sam's heartbreak.

He couldn't even manage to get an apology out, because he wasn't sure how to apologize to someone for destroying their life, and their future. All Sam could do was sob.

There was a sharp smack across Sam's cheek, which knocked him out of it. He stared disbelievingly at Jonah, who was watching him with wide eyes.

Jonah took a moment to think about what he wanted to say, before finally starting.

“I... this is good, all right? This is b-better than what I had with Mistress.”

Sam choked out an incredulous, sad laugh, lowering his head. Jonah lifted it with a gentle hand cupping Sam's cheek.

“No, it... it is. You're good, Sam. You're so good. And... and if Master lets us stay together, when we're both good, that's worth the times when we're apart, isn't it?”

Sam blinked, tears clinging to his lashes.

“W-with Mistress, I was alone most of the time, unless someone was u-using me.” Sam saw Jonah's throat work. “That's... that's what Master's b-basement is, isn't it? That's... that's my _normal_. If... if that becomes the exception, rather than the rule... that's an improvement, right?”

It struck Sam suddenly that Jonah was right. His words bubbled out of him. “B-but you don't know how... how bad it can get down there...”

Sam momentarily felt like he was asphyxiating, before giving himself a shake to rid himself of the feeling.

Jonah chuckled softly. “I know bad. I know how it feels to... to not be seen as a person. To be reduced to a _thing_. To be gr-grateful for the lash, because it means you're not alone. I... I know bad.”

Jonah ran a hand back through his hair, before continuing. “I know you can't be perfect. No one's perfect. I know I'm going to end up in the b-basement. And it's not going to be your fault...”

“But it _will_ be my fault!!” Sam cut across him.

Jonah stared him down. “...because it wasn't you, or me, that put ourselves in this position. This... this is what Master wants, how he wants it to be, so that's how it is.”

A ringing silence fell, and both of the boys stared at one another. After a very long moment, Jonah broke it.

“If these rules mean that I get to spend even a quarter of my time – even a tenth – with you in Master's suite, then... then it's worth it, and it's an improvement.”

Sam wasn't certain he'd managed to communicate just how horrifying the cells in the basement were... until realizing that it really didn't matter. Jonah had already been through a million tortures, and as creative as Castiel's henchmen were, he doubted they could come up with anything worse than what he'd already been through.

“I'm... I'm going to do my b-best to make sure that doesn't h-happen.” Sam whispered.

Jonah smiled wryly. “I guarantee there will be times when your best isn't going to be good enough, or that you'll make a mistake, or there may just be times when Master wants to punish you, by punishing me.”

Sam's shoulders sagged. He knew Jonah was right.

A gentle touch on Sam's shoulder. “But we mustn't let him make us hate each other, despite how hard he tries.”

“N-never. I could never hate you.” Sam wiped self-consciously at his tearstained cheeks.

“Nor I you. We _must_ remember this. That what happens is entirely what Master wishes, and to endure, knowing that when it ends, we'll be together again.”

Jonah gripped the sides of Sam's head, and pulled him into a fierce kiss. Sam was stunned for a moment, before wrapping his arms around Jonah and kissing back. When they broke the kiss, both boys were winded.

“For what it's worth, Sam, I love you.” Jonah whispered against Sam's lips.

“I love you, too.” Sam crushed the smaller boy against him, burying his face in the crook of Jonah's neck.

Sam tried to ignore the shard of ice, lodged just under his ribs, the fear that _gospodin_ would use that love against them, would twist and contort it into a wretched mockery of itself.

 _He... he won't. He won't._ Sam tried to convince himself.

He failed.

 

*

 

The boys had a fairly quiet couple of days in their hotel room. Guards came and went intermittently, mostly to force Jonah to take more pills, and to toss them table scraps to eat.

Neither was particularly fazed by this, as they were both pretty familiar with hunger. There were enough scraps and leftovers that 'hunger' never tripped into 'starvation', which both boys were grateful for.

They spent a great deal of time snuggled together on the bed, watching mindless daytime television shows. Sam grew exasperated with them pretty quickly, but they held Jonah's attention, so Sam tolerated them. He held him close and stroked his hair as Jonah watched wide-eyed as Maury Povich announced, “You are _not_ the father!”.

One time, there was a loud _thud_ from the hallway, and the door rattled on its hinges. Both boys jolted and clung to one another, but there was no further ruckus, and the door never did end up opening.

On the morning of the fifth day, the door opened, and Castiel walked through it. Directly behind him was Guilia, with the fine golden leash attached at the other end to a rail-thin boy, huge blue eyes sparkling with tears in a gaunt face, painful-looking welts scattered across his skin. He had short-cropped blonde hair, and seemed to be looking at everyone his gaze glanced across for mercy, for help. He had the rolled-steel collar, the glittering cock cage, kneepads, and nothing else.

Sam and Jonah crawled out of the bed, and moved to kneel side by side, facing Castiel and Giulia.

“Jonah, when you kneel, you kneel slightly behind and to Sam's left, please.” Castiel instructed kindly.

Out of his peripherals, Sam saw Jonah comply. Sam shot Castiel one quick glance, before lowering his gaze again. Jonah's eyes didn't leave the floor.

“We're leaving soon, to return to California. I wasn't sure if perhaps Jonah had any parting words for his Mistress.” Castiel's voice, Sam recognized, was carefully modulated into calmness.

Sam saw Jonah freeze. He wasn't even sure he was breathing. Eyes still on the floor, he shook his head just a little, no.

“Disrespectful wretch!! I taught you better than that! You know better...” Giulia took the step towards Jonah, raising her hand to strike him. Jonah braced himself, but didn't flinch away from it. 

Sam's hand shot up and intercepted the blow, catching Giulia's wrist just before her backhand landed.

Giulia stared at him, gobsmacked. She wrenched her hand from Sam's grip, and moved to hit him in exactly the same manner.

Sam flinched and closed his eyes, but the blow never landed. He dared to peek upwards, and Castiel was holding her wrist, and had pulled her against his front.

“Neither of these are yours to punish any longer. Trust me that their behaviour _will_ be corrected.” Castiel kissed her deeply, and she melted against him.

Coming up from the kiss, Giulia seemed mollified. “Farewell, Castiel. I do not envy you, to have such grossly disobedient pets.” She stroked a hand through Austin's blonde curls.

Castiel chuckled. “They're teachable. Farewell.”

One more lingering kiss, and Giulia and her pet left the suite.

Castiel sighed deeply, turning back to the two boys. Sam's heart rabbited in his chest. “That was foolish, dear one, and yet not entirely out of line.” Castiel moved to sit perched on the edge of the bed. The two boys on the floor turned to face him, and Jonah shifted just a little, to stay in the correct position behind Sam.

Castiel frowned down at Jonah's lowered head. After a moment, his face brightened. “ _Malysh_. Little one. That will be your name.”

Jonah shivered. “Y-yes, Master.”

“You may address me as _gospodin_ , as Sam does.” Castiel smiled.

“Y-yes, _gospodin_.” The tone of Jonah's whisper didn't change.

Castiel stood and stretched, letting out an explosive sigh. “Come. The plane is waiting, and I could use another of your massages, _solnishko_. Time to go home.”

 

*

 

As Sam straddled Castiel's lower back, working his fingers deep into the stress-knotted muscles of Castiel's shoulders, Jonah sat curled on one of Sam's cushions, beside the bed. Castiel, in between moans of appreciation at Sam's skills, was giving Jonah a brief explanation of the rules of Castiel's house.

“Speak... when spoken to. Otherwise keep your silence. Unless otherwise instructed, you may kneel or sit on your cushions, as you wish.” Castiel groaned deeply, his cheek mashed into a pillow. “What... what else, _solnishko_?”

“Being permitted on the bed is a privilege, not a right.” Sam supplied quietly.

“Right. I'll have to get a bigger mat for beside the bed, and some additional cushions. The cage in your room is big enough, isn't it?”

“Y-yes, _gospodin_. And... and the large cushion is, as well.”

“That's good. This feels like having gone to the pet store for cat food, and having come back with a cat.” Castiel muttered into the pillow. It made both Sam and Jonah blush.

Castiel turned his head, and cracked an eye open at Jonah. “ _Malysh_ , I will not guarantee you'll never be used sexually. I will guarantee, however, that you'll never be used sexually in an _unsafe manner_. It's bad enough, having to clear up the infections you already have, much less exposing you to more.”

Jonah blushed fuchsia. “Y-yes, _gospodin_.”

“And no further revolting shock porn.” Castiel frowned.

Jonah's blush, somehow, darkened further. “T-thank you, _gospodin_.”

“And unlike your Mistress, I'll permit you to express your fondness towards Sam in whichever ways you see fit. You may kiss, pleasure each other, make love... ... _solnishko_? Are you listening?”

Sam had frozen, his hands stilled on Castiel's skin, stunned. He forced his hands to move again. “Y-yes, thank you, _gospodin_.” That one particular bit of permission seemed, to Sam, simply huge. 

“Sam is fluid bonded to me, and you'll be fluid bonded to each other, but to no one else. This will ensure your continuing good health. Understood?”

“Y-yes, _gospodin_.” Jonah's soft whisper.

“Your legs have already been repaired. You're permitted to walk in my suite. I'm going to speak to a surgeon about having your voice restored. I cannot guarantee it will be possible, but we're going to try.”

Jonah choked, and tears started from his eyes. Castiel nudged Sam off of him, and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, directly before Jonah. He lifted Jonah's bowed head with gentle fingers under his chin, and brushed away the tears when they fell. Sam watched, eyes wide.

“You've been treated unnecessarily cruelly. I cannot promise you won't know cruelty at my hand, but this is simply petty. You're not something to be thrown aside. You have value, to me and to Sam.”

“T-thank you, _g-gospodin_ ,” Jonah managed to get out, around his quiet sobs.

“Come. Up on the bed.” Castiel reached down and took Jonah's hand, helping him first to his feet, and then to crawl up onto the bed. Sam had scooched backwards a little, and made space between himself and Castiel for Jonah.

Jonah wormed his way up into the available space, his back against Sam's chest, and his head tucked underneath Castiel's chin. He was still shaking with his crying. Castiel draped a warm arm over his ribs, and Sam gave his hip a gentle squeeze.

Jonah, exhausted by how his life had changed so dramatically in the past few days, fell asleep first, and Sam followed shortly after.

Castiel simply laid there, two beautiful boys in his bed, and smiled.


	20. Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guyyyyys, I loooooove you. <3 <3 <3
> 
> Thank you so, so much for your kind feedback.
> 
> Please don't kill me for this one?
> 
> Also, it's kinda long, sorry about that.

Sam was immensely relieved to be back at Castiel's compound, even if it did mean that the first things to go were the clothes. Jonah took it all in with wide-eyed wonder, his hand clasped tightly in Sam's.

The anaesthetic had worn off, and Jonah seemed astonished by his ability to walk without pain. Everything seemed to astonish him, and it made Sam a little sad.

“ _Malysh_ , would you mind wearing your kneepads for a while longer, while I have the cushions ordered for you?”

Jonah nodded, strapping them on and kneeling beside Sam beside the dining room table. Two bowls this time, Sam's normal fare, and it seemed as though there was a little more of it than usual. Sam ate hungrily. Jonah watched for a few moments, and followed Sam's lead, also eating from the bowl on the floor. Castiel wiped both of their faces when they were done.

Castiel directed them to cushions before the window, and Sam led the way, crawling. Jonah pulled Sam's cushion from beside the table behind him, and set it next to the one in front of the windows. Both boys sat staring at the ocean, watching the sun set, cross-legged knees touching. Castiel took a seat on the couch. 

“ _Solnishko_ , fetch a bath towel from the ensuite, would you? And the lube from the nightstand.” Castiel's voice was soft.

“Yes, _gospodin_.” Sam rose to his feet, a little shaky, and fetched the requested towel and small bottle. He passed them both to Castiel.

Castiel laid the towel out over the couch, and moved to sit on the middle of it. “Bend over the ottoman, and work yourself open.” He undid his belt, popped his button and lowered his fly.

Sam glanced at Jonah's back. He saw a stiffness that hadn't been there a few moments ago, but Jonah continued to stare resolutely out the window.

Sam made a little room for himself, and knelt, bent over the ottoman, his legs spread obscenely wide. He slicked his fingers, and brought them to his hole, rubbing and slipping one inside.

Castiel groaned, and Sam felt a tiny surge of pleasure, which made his cock twitch. A quick peek backwards showed that Castiel had taken out his cock, and was stroking it with long, gentle pulls.

More lube, and two fingers, which rapidly became three, and Sam couldn't help squirming on the ottoman as he began to harden.

“Come, sit on my lap, facing me.” Castiel shifted a little more upright.

“Y-yes, _gospodin_.” Sam stood, and walked the few steps to Castiel. He knelt on the sofa, his slick hand giving Castiel a few strokes, which pulled another groan from him, before guiding Castiel's cock to his hole and lowering himself slowly, with a soft groan of his own.

Both of them were absolutely still for a long moment, and Sam was grateful that Castiel was giving him a chance to adjust to the intrusion. Sam rolled his hips, and Castiel's hands shot down to grip them tight. Sam's hands moved to Castiel's shoulders, his left leaving a sticky handprint on Castiel's dress shirt.

Castiel let his head roll back as Sam rode him, rhythmic movements of Sam's hips. He moved his hands to cup Sam's ass cheeks, and encouraged him to lift, before dropping back down. He helped Sam bounce on his lap, and Sam was feeling a bit of burn in his quads when Castiel pulled him down and held him there, spilling deep inside him.

Sam's hard cock was twitching, and Sam had a wild hope that Castiel, who'd been so generous lately, would jerk him off, but all he did was pull Sam into a tight hug against his chest, his cock softening, still inside Sam. Sam pressed his cheek against the top of Castiel's head.

There was a heavy sigh from Castiel, and a gentle pat on Sam's bottom. “Go get cleaned up a little. I don't want come on the cushions.”

Sam blushed furiously, and lifted off of Castiel, feeling the come oozing from him. He clenched his butt cheeks together to try to avoid dripping on the carpet, and freshened up a little in the guest bathroom. Still blushing, and with a very hard cock, he returned to the living room, standing near where Castiel was still sprawled, not certain where he wanted him.

Castiel cleaned himself up a bit with the corner of the towel, and tucked himself back into his pants. He glanced at Sam's hard cock.

“I'm glad that pleasing me pleases you, _solnishko_. Perhaps, if you ask him nicely, Jonah would be willing to help with that.”

Sam's eyes shot over to Jonah, who was still resolutely, deliberately staring out the window. “J-Jonah, could... would you help...?”

Jonah turned on his cushion, and nodded. He moved to crawl towards Sam.

“Perhaps ask a little more explicitly.” Castiel smiled up at him.

Sam blinked down at Castiel, and then at Jonah, who was kneeling at his feet, his eyes downcast. “P-please...” Sam swallowed hard, his erection wilting a little. “P-please suck my cock, Jonah?” Sam cursed the tears burning in the corners of his eyes.

Jonah smiled up at him, reassuring, and nodded. He held his left wrist in his right hand behind his back, and reached for Sam's cock with his mouth.

All the way down, searing wet heat, nothing even faintly resembling a gag reflex from Jonah, and Sam thought he was going to die. His knees shook, pleasure surging through him. His hands came up to cradle Jonah's head.

Jonah pulled up just long enough to gasp in a breath through his nose, before sliding Sam's cock into the tight vise of his throat again. A few more very long minutes, Jonah's throat fluttering against him, and it was too much for Sam, who came hard without any warning, straight down Jonah's throat.

Jonah swallowed around him, milking the last of Sam's orgasm out of him, before pulling back off slowly.

Sam's knees gave out, and he slammed to the floor in front of Jonah, who reached out hands to steady him. Sam was hauling in breaths as though he'd run a marathon.

Jonah lowered his hands, and lowered his gaze. Sam wasn't quite sure how he wasn't panting for air – he'd had Sam's cock in his throat for what felt like a really long time.

“Good. Very good, both of you.” Castiel stood, wadding up the towel. “Go to your room for the rest of the evening. Ilia will be in to ensure you're tucked in.” Castiel smiled down at the two boys on the floor, turned, and walked away down the hallway.

Sam's hammering heart was finally slowing. He stared blankly at Jonah, whose eyes were still downcast. “Jesus. Are... are you okay?”

Jonah smiled a crooked little smile at him. “Yes. Let's go, like _gospodin_ said, before someone comes and makes us.”

“Yeah. Yeah, right.” Sam ran a hand back through his hair. He stood, and helped Jonah to his feet. He was immensely relieved to see it had become much easier for Jonah to stand, and he didn't really need Sam's support, though Sam wrapped an arm around his waist anyway. He led the way back down the hall and to his room.

 _Our room_ , Sam thought with a smile.

It wasn't locked, and Sam led the way in. After a quick pit stop in the washroom, Sam returned to sit near Jonah, who had sat curled up on the large, soft cushion.

Jonah's eyes were downcast again, and he was running the tips of his fingers over the soft fabric.

Sam took a seat beside him and tilted his face up with a finger under Jonah's chin. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “W-why do you do that? Keep your eyes down all the time.”

“Because most of the time, accidentally making eye contact meant a beating,” Jonah whispered. “And you didn't say if...”

“No,” Sam interrupted. “No, that's not a rule here. Well, unless there's a party. But even then, _gospodin_ would be very specific about any special rules.”

“Good to know.” A small, wry smile.

“And... and I'm sorry about the blowjob, I didn't...” Sam started, uncertain.

“It's fine.” Another smile, this one more genuine. “It was quick.”

Sam blushed furiously. It made Jonah chuckle softly. “I didn't mean it like that. There... there was one time that there were a bunch of guys, and Mistress's instructions were to choke me unconscious on their cocks, and then finish in my ass, while I was still out. One after another after another. That was... that was hard.”

Bile rose in Sam's throat, and he swallowed hard, trying to keep it down. It must've shown on his face, because Jonah crawled into Sam's lap, wrapping arms and legs around him and kissing his cheeks, his nose, his lips. “It's okay,” Jonah soothed. “It's okay.”

Nothing, Sam thought, that had happened to Jonah was in any way okay. It stunned him that after everything he'd been through that Jonah still had so much forgiveness in his heart. Sam lifted an arm and cupped the back of Jonah's head, wrapped the other around his back, and simply held him, for a long time.

He wasn't entirely sure who was comforting who.

 

*

 

Their skin was stuck together in spots, when Jonah and Sam finally released their hug. They agreed on showers, and Sam knelt, carefully washing every inch of Jonah, as he smiled down on him, in stunned wonderment. When they were both clean, Sam sank to his knees again, slicked his hands with body wash, and gave Jonah's cock a couple of long, firm pulls.

Instantly, a pained look crossed Jonah's face, and he pulled away, as much as the tiny shower stall allowed. Sam froze, and his eyes darted up to Jonah's. He lowered his hands, until they were on his own thighs.

“I... I'm sorry...” Jonah started. Sam could barely hear his whisper over the sound of the water. He rose to his feet, careful not to touch, uncertain if he'd triggered Jonah somehow, uncertain of the extent of the problem.

“No... I'm... I'm sorry, Jonah. I didn't mean to upset you...” Sam kept his voice soft.

Jonah shook his head emphatically. “Not your fault. You didn't know. I don't...” Sam saw Jonah's throat work. “I don't really like... that sort of stuff. I don't... don't want it.”

Sam nodded. “Okay. I... I understand. I won't touch you like that again, I promise, unless... unless _gospodin_ makes me.”

Jonah nodded and wrapped his arms around himself, with a shiver. A gentle tug on his arm, and Sam pulled him back under the warm water. Jonah sighed and pressed his back along Sam's front, reaching for Sam's arms and wrapping them around himself. Sam hugged him tight, his chin on the top of Jonah's head.

“This, though... this is good.” Jonah twisted a little and smiled up at Sam. Sam couldn't help his smile back at him.

“Snuggling and kissing, yes. Sex type stuff, no,” Sam summarized.

“I'm okay with giving, I just... don't want to receive.” Another small shiver.

Now that he thought about it, Sam honestly wasn't surprised that Jonah didn't want anyone touching him in a sexual manner. He felt a little guilty about not thinking of it earlier. He wondered briefly if Jonah had been like that before, or if it was a result of his trauma. In the end, though, it didn't matter, and Sam would never, ever disregard his wishes on the subject.

“Got it. Now, we need to get out because we're turning into prunes, and _gospodin_ probably wouldn't be very happy if we used up all the hot water.”

Jonah smiled, stepped out of the shower, and towelled off. Sam followed suit, and the boys brushed their teeth side by side. When they emerged from the bathroom, Boris was standing near the door to the cage, his default scowl in place.

Sam hadn't paid the cage much attention earlier, and he was stunned when there were _two_ soft blankets, and two _pillows_ inside. Sam froze half-way through the door, and it took a nudge from Jonah to get him moving. When Jonah saw what was there, his jaw dropped as well, too.

Neither boy even noticed the _clang_ of the door shutting, or the _snick_ of the lock.

“You... you get _pillows_??” Jonah asked, dumbfounded.

“No,” Sam responded blankly, his voice faint. And yet, there they were. Sam pressed down on one with a hand – soft and fluffy, in a simple white pillowcase. “Holy hell.”

Jonah huffed out one of his soft laughs. “Well, apparently you do. We do.”

“That's a hell of a 'welcome home' present.” Sam shook his head and smiled.

The boys arranged themselves to that they could sleep, snuggled skin to skin, with the blankets overlapped in the middle. Sam was drifting off, his head cushioned on his new pillow, when he heard Jonah's soft voice.

“This is so much better. So much better. Even if it's just for one night, this is so much better.”

Sam pulled him a little closer, and sleep took him.

 

*

Sam, especially, tiptoed around Castiel for the next couple of weeks, painstakingly careful not to do anything to draw his ire, and risk having Jonah sent to the basement. It was exhausting, but Jonah was always there to comfort him at the end of agonizingly long days.

One following morning found the three of them, after a perfunctory breakfast, in Castiel's office. Jonah was kneeling, head bowed, on Sam's cushion, because Sam was bent, spread-legged, over the top of Castiel's desk.

This time it was only Boris, standing just inside the doorway, his hands clasped, his gaze neutral.

Castiel had been teasing Sam with gentle touches for what felt like hours, between bouts of typing away on his laptop. Sam was hard and trembling, and thinking about the Viagra commercial, and “if erection lasts more than four hours...”

Castiel's phone rang, and he picked it up and answered. His slid two fingers of his free hand into Sam's ass, rubbing Sam's prostate hard, and Sam couldn't help the shuddering groan.

A soft beep from Castiel's phone, a hard smack across Sam's ass, and another soft beep from the phone. Sam bit his lip, getting Castiel's message loud and clear. He buried his face in his arms, hoping that would help muffle his small noises, as well.

He heard Boris clear his throat softly, from his spot across from Sam and Castiel.

It occurred to him that Boris was just standing there watching, as Sam squirmed and whined and tried to grind himself needily against the surface of Castiel's desk. It was mortifying. A dark, sour sort of embarrassment flooded him, made him still and soften, despite Castiel's continuing touches.

“ _Solnishko..._ ”

“Y-yes, _gospodin_?” 

“I have a proposition for you.” Sam's heart stuttered. “You know that my guards have missed having you as a plaything, hmm?”

Sam tensed, flushing blotchily red, and Castiel swatted his rump in reprimand. “Y-yes, _gospodin_...” Sam forced his words out of his tight throat, trying to force himself to relax, trying to pull his thoughts from the treatment he'd received in the basement.

“Well, I'm thinking of giving them Jonah for a few weeks, to help keep morale up.”

Sam heard Jonah's sharp intake of air, his tiny gasping breaths.

A wave of violent protectiveness rose within Sam, and he nearly choked on it. A sickening urge to stop Castiel, to stop his men, at all costs, to protect Jonah from them. He lifted his head a little, and saw Castiel's silver letter opener in the clutter on the desk near his head. Before he could even stop to think what he was doing, he'd reached out and grabbed it tightly.

And then he froze. The temperature in the office felt as though it'd dropped ten degrees.

“ _... Solnishko_?” Castiel's hand stilled, his fingers still inside Sam's body.

Sam's heart stuttered in his chest, but he couldn't make himself drop it. Not that he'd even had a clue as to what he thought he was going to do with it. He imagined himself ramming it into one of Castiel's beautiful blue eyes...

The letter opener fell from limp fingers.

Castiel's fingers retreated.

“I... I'm sorry. I didn't... I wasn't going to...” Sam's panic swamped him.

Castiel sighed. He said a very short sentence, in Russian, which Sam clearly heard contain ' _malysh_ '.

Boris, frowning now, swept over to Jonah, reaching for his arm. Sam tried to stand up, reaching for him as well, but a hard hand slammed against his back, shoving him back down against the top of the desk.

Jonah's head shot up, his eyes wide with confusion and fear, and then with pain as Boris clenched a hand around his bicep, pulling him to his feet.

“No! _Gospodin_ , please, no!” Sam pleaded, trying to stand up again. A vicious hand gripped the back of his neck, forcing him down, his cheek smushed against the desk. He watched through eyes filling with tears as Jonah was hauled out of the office.

Castiel held him like that for what felt like a long time, as Sam panicked and cried.

When he spoke, Castiel's voice was jovial. “Well. It certainly didn't take you long to earn _malysh_ some time in the basement.”

A hand sank into the hair on the back of Sam's head, and yanked him upwards, until he was standing. Castiel moved backwards, pulling Sam with him, and sat down in his chair, forcing Sam onto his lap.

“P-please, please, _gospodin_...” Sam begged, his voice hoarse.

“Would you like to see what's happening to your little friend?” Castiel released Sam's hair and wrapped an arm around his waist.

“It... he didn't do anything, it should b-be me...”

“Someone's clearly not quite come to terms with the concept of having a whipping boy, hmm? Well, watch. See.”

Sam forced his eyes to Castiel's laptop screen. Castiel obligingly maximized each camera's view as Jonah was hauled, stumbling, past them. Castiel gave Sam a gentle squeeze.

Sam, for his part, thought he'd vomit as Jonah was hauled into one of the cells in the basement, one of the cells Sam hadn't seen. There was a terrifying-looking table there, covered in restraint points, the requisite rings dotting the walls, the bathroom nook in the corner.

Jonah was fastened face-down on the table, his arms and legs pulled taut and spread-eagled. He didn't fight, but Sam could see his back heaving with what were probably panicked breaths. He wondered if Jonah was crying. Sam certainly was.

Sam watched in horror as a man walked into frame and handed Boris a heavy cat 'o' nine tails. He decided to try begging again. “P-please, _gospodin_ , please...”

Castiel's eyes were locked on the screen, though the hand against Sam's waist trailed gently over his skin. His voice was thoughtful, when he spoke. “You raised a _weapon_ against me.”

Sam twisted, framing Castiel's face in his hands and trying to turn his head, to make him look at Sam rather than the screen. A flash of irritation crossed Castiel's features, and he shoved Sam down off his lap. Sam hit the floor with a thud.

“Careful, _solnishko_. _Malysh_ is in quite enough trouble as it is, without you adding to it.” A hard hand on the back of Sam's collar hauled him to his knees. “Watch.”

Sam looked back up in time to see Jonah receive a brutal blow from the whip across his back. He tried to arch away from it, but there simply wasn't any give to the chains. Dark purple and blood-red welts, and Boris hit Jonah again, and again, and again.

Sam sobbed, and he watched Jonah tense after every strike, and dissolve into sobs afterwards. Once Jonah's back was completely covered with ghastly welts, harsh hands unbound one ankle, and bent Jonah's knee, baring the sole of his foot to Boris, who had swapped the whip for a long rattan cane.

Another of Castiel's lackeys held Jonah's foot perfectly still as Boris laid welt after welt across the bottom of it. Sam couldn't even fathom how painful that would be, and was sickened as he watched Jonah start to shake uncontrollably against the table.

Sam sagged, and lowered his eyes as Boris began on the sole of the other foot.

“You're very lucky this is simply a beating. I ought to have his hands removed.”

Sam choked, coughing, still sobbing hard. He straightened in time to see Jonah, limp against the table as the men removed his restraints, clearly unconscious. One of the men took his right hand, curled his fingers into a fist and enclosed it in some sort of fingerless, tight, black leather mitten.

“As it is, he'll simply lose access to his hands for a time.”

Jonah's other hand was encased, too, and the mittens were locked in place. Boris rolled Jonah onto his back, Jonah's head lolling, and picked him up in a bridal carry.

More flipping of the cameras, and Castiel stopped on one which was grainy and grey – infrared. A tiny, miserable cell, no facilities, no sleeping mat, no windows. Pitch black. There was a bucket in one corner of the room. Boris lowered Jonah to the floor, positioning him on his stomach. The room wasn't even big enough for him to lie down flat in. Boris left.

Sam didn't even realize that he was sitting, horrified, tears pouring down his face and his hands clamped over his mouth, until Castiel closed the laptop gently. The soft _snick_ of it closing snapped Sam out of it, and he looked despairingly up at Castiel.

Castiel rolled his chair forwards, bracketing Sam between his legs. He brushed Sam's hair back gently from his face.

“This is merely a beginning, for your friend. It may be some time before I forgive you for what you've done.”

Sam clenched his eyes shut, shaking with his sobs, too distraught to even apologize. He jolted as he heard movement from the doorway, prying his eyes open to see Boris, wiping his hands with a cloth, his shirt smeared with Jonah's blood.

A wave of molten fury rose within him, which was choked immediately by icy terror. The combination left him gasping, on the floor between Castiel's legs.

Castiel stroked his hair gently. The touch might have been soothing under other circumstances. As it was, all that Sam could think of was how sorry he was, to Castiel, but mostly to Jonah. And that it should be him, beaten unconscious in a cell in the basement. And as much as he'd love one of Castiel's shots, so that he didn't have to feel this any longer, he felt he owed it to Jonah to experience the pain and the grief.

Castiel nudged him towards the cushion that Jonah had so recently occupied. Sam curled up in a ball of misery on it, tears falling intermittently. It seemed like hours before Castiel instructed Boris to take Sam back to his room.

Sam scrambled to his feet before Boris even reached him, not at all certain he'd be able to handle being touched, and headed towards his room. Boris oversaw his preparations in the washroom, and when Sam was done, Boris pointed to the cage.

Sam crawled, defeated, into the cage, which Boris locked. He laid down, staring at Jonah's empty blanket, empty pillow. Sam clutched the latter to his chest, crying hard into it, his eyes aching and burning.

He fell asleep in exactly that position, heartbreak and exhaustion dropping him into darkness.


	21. Priorities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♥♥♥♥♥
> 
> I love you guys.
> 
> There's now a collection of satellite works for this one, as well (Solnishko- Collected Works). There's not much in there yet, but there IS some amazing fanart by dreamingtany, which is also linked at the end of this work, and you really, REALLY should check out. ♥

When Sam woke, his eyes glued shut and aching, all he seemed to be able to feel was wooden. He didn't even want to cry, as though he'd already shed as many tears as it was possible to shed. All that Sam was left with was an empty sort of despair.

Managing to pry his eyes open, he saw the door to the cage was ajar, though Boris wasn't anywhere to be seen.

It didn't even matter to him that he could leave the cage, if he wished. What did it matter, the welded steel bars, his spacious room, Castiel's suite, Castiel's compound? It was simply layer after layer of cages.

Sam rolled to his side, clutched Jonah's pillow to his chest, and curled up into as small a ball as he could make of himself, before pulling the blanket up over his head and clenching his eyes tightly shut.

Sam heard the soft sound of his door opening, and then closing. He didn't bother to move.

He didn't move, either, under the touch of a hand against his ankle, the gentle brush of a thumb, over his blanket.

“ _Solnishko_.” Castiel's voice, soft. Sam curled into himself a little tighter.

“ _Solnishko_ , come out, please.” A gentle squeeze on his ankle.

Sam was on the very verge of pulling away when it struck him what pulling away would mean for Jonah. Slowly, stiffly, he uncurled himself, setting aside the pillow and blanket, seeing Castiel sitting cross-legged on the floor just outside of the cage. He scooched back a little, as Sam moved to sit in front of him.

Sam didn't even bother to look up at Castiel's face. He didn't see the concerned frown. All he did was sit perfectly still, a sick sort of feeling in his stomach, and waited for Castiel's next command. Which he knew he'd follow, unthinkingly and obediently, if it meant sparing Jonah any more pain.

Castiel's fingers stroked down the edge of his jaw, and tucked his hair behind his ear.

Sam's tension grew every moment Castiel didn't do, or say, anything. He tried hard not to fidget, under Castiel's calm gaze. Eventually, though, he broke.

“Wh-” Sam choked and coughed, his throat dry and tight. “What would... what would you have me do, _gospodin_?”

Something inside him shattered into dust when he said it. Some vestige of dignity, he thought. He felt like a puppet, waiting for someone to pull his strings and make him dance.

“I'd have you come to the dining table and have some breakfast, after freshening up in the washroom. Can you manage that?”

And there was the pull on his strings. He nodded, and climbed to his feet, as did Castiel. Castiel left the room, and Sam moved to the washroom to start his day.

 

*

 

After a perfunctory breakfast, Castiel led Sam to his office, and nudged him to sit on his cushion. Sam moved where Castiel's hands guided him, and then didn't move at all. He stared blankly at one of the wheels of Castiel's office chair as Castiel worked on his laptop, held his meetings, and otherwise ignored him.

He didn't see the number of glances that Castiel shot at him, his brow creased in a frown.

Sam felt... broken. After all of the other punishments Castiel had inflicted upon him, Sam had been hurt, and apologetic, and wanting to do better, but now... Sam swallowed hard. Now he knew he'd never fight back again, never resist, because there wasn't anything left in him that _could_ resist.

The idea of trying to fight seemed laughable.

There was a soft tap on the top of Sam's head. Sam raised his head and gaze high enough to see three pills, different shapes and colours, in one of Castiel's hands, and a glass of water in the other.

Sam swallowed them down without hesitation, not even caring what they were going to do to him. A gentle hand carded through his hair, before retreating. A few moments later, a tablet was lowered into his line of sight.

Sam took it with trembling hands. It was large, perhaps ten inches on the diagonal, frightfully thin, and had some small buttons on the side. Sam pressed one at random, and the screen lit up – with a view of Jonah's wretched cell.

Jonah was curled up in a corner, the farthest from the bucket, his knees pulled up under his chin and arms wrapped around them. His hands were still locked in the leather mittens. He was rocking himself, painstakingly careful to keep the ghastly wounds on his back away from the concrete.

The tears that pricked in Sam's eyes _seared_. Apparently he'd been wrong about not having any more left in him. He was aching and dying to ask his _gospodin_ if there was anything he could do, please, _please_ , to help Jonah in any way.

He kept his mouth resolutely shut. The touch of gentle fingers under his chin startled him, and a soft handkerchief dabbed away his tears. Castiel pressed the handkerchief into Sam's hand and gave the back of his neck a soft squeeze before returning to his work.

Sam's handkerchief was sodden before dinner time arrived.

 

*

 

Most unusually, Boris dined with Castiel that evening, as Sam sat numbly on his cushion, after finishing his bowl of food. There was some highly spirited conversation that Sam couldn't understand. Sam had set the tablet aside, after watching Jonah rock himself for a truly heartrending amount of time.

He started as he heard a soft metallic _click_ from above him, a couple of taps and the sound of a magazine sliding into place into a gun. He froze, barely daring to breathe.

Castiel's hand ruffled Sam's hair. “Come, _solnishko_ , you have a bet to settle.”

_A bet?! A bet involving a gun??_

Sam let Castiel draw him to his feet. Boris stood, too, a small handgun in his right hand. He moved to stand about fifteen feet away from Castiel, and turned to face him. It was the first time that Sam could remember seeing Boris smile – and it was a big one, a grin plastered ear to ear.

Castiel released Sam, and turned to face Boris, a crooked smile of his own on his face.

Boris raised the gun, levelling it at Castiel.

 _No!!_ Sam's heart stopped. His eyes darted frantically between the two men. He didn't have a clue what was going on, or how to stop it, or what he was supposed to do.

Boris flicked the safety off.

Sam was frozen by panic. If Boris killed Castiel, then what would become of him? Would he be sold off, or killed, or...

Castiel's hand pressed, warm and soft, against Sam's lower back. “Are you just going to _let_ him shoot me, _solnishko_?” Castiel asked, with a soft chuckle.

Sam's heart restarted with a lurch, hammering against his ribs. He didn't know how to stop Boris – he was too far for Sam to reach, and his finger was already on the trigger...

The realization of what Castiel was expecting slammed into him, all at once. The slack nausea filled him again, realizing that there was only one option, only one choice. Shaking head to foot, Sam forced himself to move between Boris and Castiel, facing Boris, his eyes wide and frightened, effectively shielding Castiel with his own body.

He kept his eyes open long enough to see the smile slide of Boris's face, to be replaced with a disgusted sneer. Then he clenched them shut, hoping that if Boris _was_ going to fire, that it would be through his heart. Or his head.

The space of a heartbeat, and the report of the gun was deafening. Another heartbeat later, and agonizing, liquid pain from high on Sam's right thigh. He dropped like a stone to Castiel's floor. 

Castiel crouched down over him immediately, pulling him onto his back, his hands stroking over Sam's skin. Sam barely heard his whispered reassurances, barely felt the lingering kiss to his forehead.

He _did_ feel the sting of the injection in his shoulder, and the last thing he saw before the darkness took him was Castiel's eyes, crinkled into a smile.

 

*

 

Sam woke, curled on his side, warm and so, so comfortable, his nose filled with the scent of Castiel's cologne. It took him a moment to realize that he was curled up against Castiel's front, his head tucked under Castiel's chin, Castiel's arm draped loosely over him.

His eyes hurt, still, and there was an annoying, niggling ache from his right thigh. He stiffened when he remembered why.

“Good morning, dear one.” Castiel murmured, giving Sam a squeeze and kissing the top of his head.

Sam found himself wondering if the bullet was still inside him, or if it had been removed. “G-good morning, _gospodin_.”

“You did very, very well last night. I'm proud of you,” murmured against Sam's hair.

Sam thought it telling that somehow he was only a little distressed that taking a bullet meant that he'd done well.

Castiel pulled back a little, and tilted Sam's head up so that he could see his eyes. Sam caught a glimpse of brilliant blue before lowering his gaze.

“Tell me. Why did you handle the situation last night the way you did, hmm?”

Sam's breath caught in his chest. He had a feeling there was a lot riding on this answer. Haltingly, he forced himself to speak.

“Didn't... couldn't... I didn't want you to g-get hurt.” Sam thought it wise to keep his suicidal ideation to himself. He wasn't sure if he ought to say more – something about not wanting to be alone, or be sold...

Judging by the fierceness with which Castiel hugged him close, lips against Sam's forehead, his answer had been a good one. He heard a soft, murmured phrase, not in English, and Castiel tilted Sam's face up, kissing him deeply. He was out of breath by the time Castiel released him from it.

“ _Madonna mia_ , you're perfect.” Castiel spoke the words against Sam's lips. “So perfect for me. So good.”

Sam dared to feel a tiny spark of hope that maybe he'd been good enough to earn Jonah a reprieve from his cell. As though he'd been reading Sam's mind, Castiel offered, “I think you've earned your little friend back, hmm?”

“P-please, _gospodin_.” Barely a whisper.

“He'll be a burden for quite some time. He's going to need your care,” Castiel warned.

Sam nodded, not really caring how much he was going to have to help Jonah, if it meant getting him out of the cell. “I... I'll help him, _gospodin_ , I promise.”

Castiel regarded him seriously. “You know that as much as you value him, that he should always come second in your thoughts.”

“Of... of course, _gospodin_. You're... you'll always be the most important. Always.” Sam swallowed hard.

Castiel stared long and hard at him, before reaching behind himself and snagging his cell phone. A short conversation in Russian, and he set the phone aside again. “Now come, show me your gratitude, before you return to your room.”

Sam did, happily.

 

*

 

Sam opened his door slowly, uncertain of what to expect. Jonah was sprawled face-down on the hardwood, his eyes closed. There was a steel basin, filled with first aid supplies, set near him on the floor.

He had to fight down the surge of nausea at the state of Jonah's back – it had looked bad through the cameras, but it was horrific to see in person – bruises black and purple, clotted, scabbed wounds, some still oozing sluggishly. In comparison, the bottoms of his feet didn't look so bad, but Sam bet there wasn't any way Jonah was going to be able to walk, not with the welts across them. He still had the leather mittens on. Sam moved to his side and knelt, touching his cheek gently. Jonah's eyes flickered open, looking a little glassy.

“Jonah. It's... it's okay. I'm here to help.”

Jonah managed the barest nod, his eyes closing again.

Sam wasn't sure where to begin. He dug through the basin, and stopped, stunned, when he found a vial of hydromorphone – Dilaudid – complete with a dosing table and syringes. Sam had used Dilaudid a couple of times recreationally, and he knew how much it would help Jonah. His hands only shook a little as he prepared the shot, and injected it carefully into Jonah's left shoulder. He thought briefly of fixing himself one, to stop the nagging ache from his thigh, but decided that Jonah's need was greater, and he wasn't certain if the supplies would be replenished once depleted. 

After he was done, he curled up near Jonah's side, stroking his hair. It didn't take long for the drug to take effect – Jonah's breathing deepening and smoothing out, leaving him limp against the floor. 

“Okay, I'm going to clean up your back, all right? And bandage you up.”

Jonah nodded, clearly high as a kite and feeling no pain.

Sam painstakingly cleaned Jonah's wounds, sterile gauze and alcohol. He didn't want him to scar any more than he absolutely had to. To his relief, the skin was intact in most places, and where it was broken, it wasn't deep. He applied an antibiotic cream to each laceration, and bandaged them all carefully. It took an astonishingly long time. Jonah began to stiffen under his touches before he was done, and Sam fixed him another shot.

Sam was left with a neatly bandaged, if exhausted and trembling friend, and a pile of bloodsoaked gauze, which he deposited in the rubbish bin in the washroom. He tidied up the supplies, and set them on a shelf in the closet.

Jonah was boneless when Sam lifted him carefully, carrying him over to the cushion, and settling him on his stomach, tucking his pillow under his head and covering him loosely with his blanket. He quickly grabbed his own, as well, and laid down on his side, facing Jonah and very close.

Jonah's eyes flickered open as Sam was settling himself. A crooked smile crossed his face. When he spoke, his voice was a raspy whisper. “Told you.”

Sam blinked, and his mouth opened, though he wasn't sure what he wanted to say.

Jonah laughed, the soft, huffing sound. “Knew I'd end up there. But it's good... good to be back here.” His voice was faint.

“I'm so sorry...” Sam started.

“I forgive you. I'll... always...” Jonah blinked slowly, and his eyes closed.

Sam saw sleep take him. _'... always forgive me,'_ Sam finished in his head. He kissed Jonah's cheek, and settled in to watch over him as he rested.


	22. Fete

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one was a little short, this one is a little long. I hope it's okay. :)

Sam woke to a nudge to his ribs. He frowned, pulling away a little, but the nudge persisted. He opened his eyes, seeing the sky darkening through the skylight. He glanced to his side, and Jonah was smiling apologetically at him, propped up on his elbows.

“I'm sorry to wake you,” Jonah started, his voice a harsh rasp, “but I kind of really need your help in the washroom. I'm sorry.”

“No, no, it's all right.” Sam rubbed his eyes. ”Come on. Can you walk?” Sam pushed himself up to sitting.

Jonah shook his head, no. “H-hurts too much.”

“I'll carry you.”

Sam helped Jonah gulp some water (he was clearly parched, and Sam wasn't sure the last time he'd been given water), brush his teeth and use the facilities. With the leather mittens, his hands were useless, so Sam did most of it for him.

He also used a warm, wet cloth to clean Jonah's undamaged skin, getting some of the grime from the cell off. Jonah was blushing, obviously self-conscious, but was still under Sam's ministrations. He drew in a slightly deeper breath once Sam was done, and shot Sam a shy, thankful smile.

Sam scooped Jonah back up, and carried him back out to the cushion.

Boris was waiting for them. Sam froze, Jonah cradled in his arms. “Come.”

Sam followed in Boris's wake, finding Castiel already at the table, dining. Sam's bowl was on the floor near his cushion, but there wasn't one set out for Jonah. Sam sank to his knees, as close to the edge of his cushion as he could, and carefully lowered Jonah to his knees beside him. It was a tight fit, if either of them had been any less slender they wouldn't have managed it.

Sam glanced up at Castiel, to find him smiling down at him. Castiel gestured to Sam's bowl.

Castiel finished his food before Sam did. Jonah kept his head lowered, staring at the floor. Once Sam was finished, Castiel pushed his chair back a little, loosened his belt and unbuttoned his pants.

Sam stiffened and flushed, but allowed himself to be pulled into Castiel's lap, his back against Castiel's chest.

“Grind against me, _solnishko_ , and let's see how long it takes you to make me hard,” Castiel murmured into Sam's ear.

Sam's blush deepened, but he planted his feet securely on the floor, gripped the edge of the table for stability, and thought back to every strip club he'd ever been in. He rolled his hips, dragging his ass against Castiel's groin, and Castiel shuddered beneath him. Sam couldn't help his smug little smile.

It didn't take long for Sam to be able to feel the long line of Castiel's cock against his ass, but Castiel didn't give him any indication to stop, so Sam kept it up.

Beside the two of them, Boris set down a food bowl for Jonah, and Jonah bent, mittens against the floor, to eat.

Castiel urged Sam up, and Sam bent over the table a little as Castiel worked him open with slick fingers.

Sam was easing Castiel's cock into himself, Castiel's careful hands on his hips as he lowered, when he noticed something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Jonah had stiffened, in his crunched-over position over his bowl, and was starting to shake. Sam froze, Castiel sheathed within him, eyes fixed on Jonah, and Castiel's hands tightened on his hips.

“Ride me, _solnishko_.” Castiel's voice carried a hint of warning.

Jonah fell to his side, convulsing, his eyes rolling up into his head. He flipped onto his back, and Boris used one booted foot to turn him back onto his side.

“ _G-Gospodin_ , Jonah...” Sam started, his voice small.

“Last chance, dear one.” A gentle squeeze on Sam's hips, pulling him against Castiel a little harder.

Sam clenched his eyes shut, hard, trying to remember where his priorities were. He lifted himself a little and dropped, grinding his ass against Castiel's groin on the downstroke, earning him a pleased groan from Castiel, while Jonah gagged and choked on the floor.

Sam's brain churned while he rode Castiel hard, his eyes still tightly shut. Surely, he thought, whatever drugs Jonah had been given – it had to have been drugs, and in his food – surely they weren't going to _kill_ Jonah. And as much as Sam wanted to help him, he knew that riding Castiel's cock was, perversely, the best way to keep Jonah safe, even as he writhed on the floor.

“Good boy!” Castiel panted, gripping Sam's hips bruisingly tight and spilling inside him. Sam stayed perfectly still, feeling Castiel soften. He opened his eyes, and saw from the corner of them Jonah, pale and still, seemingly unconscious on the floor.

Castiel's hands unclenched from Sam's hips. “Good boy. Go get cleaned up, and take Jonah back to your room.”

Sam felt empty when he stood, in more ways than one. “Y-yes, _gospodin_.”

 

*

 

Sam figured that he might as well use Jonah's drug-induced unconsciousness for something good - to care for his back, removing bloodsoaked bandages, cleaning, and reapplying them. He was sitting cross-legged near him when Jonah started to move.

“Hey.” Sam kept his voice soft, and stroked a hand through Jonah's hair.

“Hey. Wow.” Jonah brought a hand up to rub at his eyes, before remembering the mittens. Sam let him grip his wrist between them, and use Sam's knuckles to do so. Jonah smiled thankfully up at him once he was done. “That... that was something new. I've never... never felt anything like that before.”

Sam's heart cracked in two.

“Did... did it look cool, at least?” Jonah tried on another smile, but this one wasn't very convincing.

Tears pricked in Sam's eyes. “It looked horrific. I thought... I wasn't sure if you were going to be okay.”

“But you did the right thing anyway. I suppose that if _gospodin_ wants to kill me, he will, and you're not going to be able to stop him.” Jonah's whisper was a little croaky.

That violent protectiveness rose within Sam again. “I won't...”

“Yes, you will.” Jonah cut across him. “You'll let _gospodin_ do whatever he wants to me. Because if you try to keep me safe, it's only going to make everything worse.”

Sam sagged, defeated. He knew Jonah was right. Jonah's mittened hand came up, and stroked down Sam's cheek, smearing the tears that had fallen.

“ _Madonna mia_ , I hate these things.” Jonah glared at the black leather encasing his hand.

That made Sam laugh, a little hiccuping laugh, despite himself.

“And I wish I'd gotten a little more of that food in me, before the drugs kicked in.” Jonah sighed. “And what happened here?” The mitten glanced across the small bandage over Sam's gunshot wound.

“I took a bullet so _gospodin_ wouldn't.” Sam looked glumly down at it.

“Look at you go, making all the right choices. I'm going to go ahead and assume that's why I was in the basement for a surprisingly short period of time. Thank you for that.”

Sam nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

The door opened, and Castiel stood in the doorway. “ _Malysh_ , come, you have an appointment.” Castiel swept over to him and picked him up, wrapping Jonah's arms around his neck, and legs around his waist, supporting him with arms under Jonah's butt.

Sam watched the emotion fall from Jonah's face, leaving it eerily blank.

The two men left Sam's room, closing the door, Sam's heart hammering in his chest.

 

*

 

Sam was too anxious to function.

No one came to his room, no one brought food or drink or even came to take him somewhere. The sky turned black through his skylight, and still no one came.

Sam had been twisting the edge of the cushion between his hands, before thinking he might damage it, and letting it go in favour of clutching his hands together.

He knew he ought to sleep, but he also knew he wasn't going to be able to, not until Jonah... not until _someone_ came to him.

He was shaking and dizzy with exhaustion, and the sky was beginning to brighten through the skylight when his door opened. It was Castiel, carrying an unconscious Jonah in a bridal carry. Desperately worried, Sam lurched to his feet, felt overwhelmingly dizzy and tottered to the left for a few steps, before stabilizing himself.

“ _G-gospodin._ Is... is everything o-okay?” Sam's eyes raked over Jonah. He spotted a large bandage on the front of his throat, but nothing else out of place.

“Everything is fine, dear one.” Castiel knelt and arranged Jonah on his side on the cushion, resting his head on the pillow and tucking the blanket around him. “ _Malysh's_ voice has been repaired. Or rather, will be repaired once he heals. Try to ensure he whispers as little as possible, please.” Castiel climbed to his feet and dusted his hands off.

Sam stood staring at him for a heartbeat, before full-body flinging himself at Castiel and clutching him tight. He heard Castiel's soft chuckle, and felt the kiss pressed to his hair.

“T-thank you, _gospodin_. So much. So much.” Sam's voice was muffled in the crook of Castiel's neck, but from the affectionate squeeze he received, he thought Castiel had been able to hear him.

 

*

 

Sam wasn't called upon to serve much for the following few days, though when he was called, he answered enthusiastically. He spent the rest of his time caring for Jonah, and was careful to only direct yes and no questions towards him, so he wouldn't have to speak.

He was also given the same three mismatched pills, every single day, at roughly the same time. Jonah had his own pills to take, as well, but they didn't look anything like Sam's.

The bruises on Jonah's back healed, fading to ugly greens and mustards, and the welts on his feet healed as well. After a week, Castiel ordered the leather mittens removed, and one of the first things Jonah did was to clutch Sam's head, while he kissed him deeply.

The square of light from the sunlight was in 'late afternoon' position, and the two boys were curled together on the cushion in its warmth, like cats, when the door opened.

Upside-down, Sam saw Castiel dressed in an immaculate, perfectly-tailored tuxedo. Sam moved to kneel, and Jonah knelt beside him. Castiel walked to him, and Sam kept his eyes on the shiny tip of one perfectly polished shoe, until a gentle hand under his chin lifted his face and gaze.

Castiel wore a very warm smile. “Come. Let's get you ready for the party.”

Sam was drawn to his feet. Castiel completely ignored Jonah, and left him in the room after guiding Sam from it with an arm around his waist.

In Castiel's office was the same older man, in the same rumpled topcoat, with the same heavy-looking briefcase.

Sam was decked out very similarly to the last party, except this time his accessories were gold. He was given a pair of low-slung, translucent, gauzy pants, and this time the cock cage didn't have a sound attached, which made Sam heave in a shaking, grateful breath.

The collar was similar to the silver one he had worn, though this time the rings were decorated, sparkling diamonds embedded seemingly at random. 

More chains draped over Sam's skin, and this time, in addition to the chain from his nostril to his earlobe, he had a headpiece, which draped down the centre part of his hair, and had a pendant which sat high in the middle of his forehead. He blushed a little at the thought that he was looking more and more like a south Asian bride.

(He shoved down, hard, with a bit of hysteria the thought that Castiel would want to marry him.)

As the older man tried rings on Sam's fingers – a mind-blowing amount of gold and diamonds – Castiel took a long length of white satin ribbon, and wove a corset down Sam's back, tying it into a bow, and letting the ends trail. He knelt behind Sam, and trimmed the ends of the fabric so that they fell just above his ankles.

The two men finished the adjustments on Sam's outfit at roughly the same time. 

“Ivan, thank you again.” Castiel pulled the man into a tight hug, before escorting him out.

Sam was breathing a little heavily by the time Castiel returned to him, but he was trying to keep his fear under control. Castiel kissed his cheek, and then his lips, before wrapping an arm around him and escorting him from the suite.

When they reached the limousine, Castiel intercepted him before he could settle on the floor. “I don't want you to dirty your ribbons, dear one. Sit here, on the seat beside me.”

Sam couldn't even fathom there being one tiny piece of dirt anywhere within the immaculate limousine, but was happy to be permitted to curl up against Castiel's side on the comfortable bench. Being so close to him seemed to be helping his panic, as well – it was hard to be frightened in _gospodin's_ arms.

“Same rules,” Castiel murmured against the top of Sam's head. “Keep your chin up and your gaze down, follow me a step behind and a little to my left. You may tap my wrist if there's something you urgently need.”

Sam nodded, feeling a brief spike of panic, his breath stuttering in his chest. He was pretty sure that the party would be similar to the last one, and he'd endured that perfectly well – and at least this time he wouldn't have to witness his best friend being systematically raped. He drew in a shaky breath and snuggled a little closer to Castiel, relaxing just a little under the kisses Castiel pressed to his hair and skin.

 

*

 

The party was at a mansion. Sam didn't have any other words for a building that size. He felt completely intimidated by the place, and wished that he could hold Castiel's hand, at the very least – the fine golden leash that Castiel had affixed to his collar didn't calm him much. He forced himself to keep his position and his posture the way Castiel wanted him as they moved through the hallways.

When they reached the room ('ballroom?') where the party was being held, Sam fought hard not to turn and run.

Yes, there was a buffet down one of the walls. There was a string quartet playing at a very pleasant volume. There were round tables which could seat six, with spaces on the floor between the chairs for pets. A small dancefloor. And then there was the dungeon.

Several pets were already bound to pieces of equipment. Sam watched the blood trickle down a narrow back, as the person with the whip kept on swinging. Even more were being forced to engage in sexual acts, while a small crowd watched. Sam felt the bile rise in the back of his throat as a burly, leather-clad man punch-fucked a boy even smaller than Jonah.

Sam closed his eyes and froze. He wasn't even aware he'd stopped walking until Castiel was wrapping an arm around his waist, his other hand on Sam's chin. Castiel's soft words came to him slowly, as Sam swallowed down his horror.

“... _Solnishko?_ ” Castiel's brow was wrinkled in a frown.

Sam looked despairingly over at the dungeon corner, and then back to Castiel.

“If it upsets you, simply don't look, dear one,” Castiel soothed.

Under Castiel's calm, level gaze, inches from Sam's own face, he somehow found himself calming, his heart rate slowing and his breathing deepening.

“There. Better. Here.” Castiel reached into a pocket and pulled out a small pill bottle. He selected a small, plain white one from the assortment and snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, handing both to Sam.

Sam took the pill and shotgunned the entire glass of champagne, which made Castiel chuckle. “No more alcohol for tonight, dear one. Not with that pill.” Castiel stroked a thumb over Sam's cheek, and Sam leaned into the welcome, soothing touch.

As Castiel made his rounds through the room, greeting people warmly and chatting, Sam's leash safely in his hand, Sam felt a very pleasant light sort of daze settle over his frayed nerves. Some of the tension fell from his shoulders, and it was much easier to both be where Castiel wanted him and to keep his gaze down – and away from where the pets were being tortured in a number of creative ways.

“Good Lord. Sam Winchester!” A loud voice broke through Sam's fragile peace. Sam's eyes shot up. His heart stopped.

It took Sam a moment to figure out who it was that was smiling so broadly at him. _Brady_ , a pre-law classmate of Sam's at Stanford, before Sam dropped out. It felt like remembering someone from a previous life. Brady was dressed to the nines in a gorgeous tuxedo, and his eyes were fixed on Sam.

Sam wanted to curl into himself and die. He felt himself flush blotchily red, lowered his gaze, and tried to lower his head, which was prevented by the collar. Castiel took a half a step, positioning himself between Brady and Sam, with an icy smile on his face.

“I knew you'd dropped out, man, but I'd never have thought you'd fall _this_ far.” Brady chuckled and took a step sideways, bringing Sam back into his view, still grinning, and apparently ignoring Castiel's murderous expression. “What do Dean and your dad think about this??”

 _Dean. Dad._ Tears pricked in Sam's eyes.

Castiel's arm shot out and grabbed the front of Brady's shirt, just below his bow tie. He sank his fingers in and twisted, yanking Brady into his personal space. Brady's eyes shot wide open – Castiel's face was locked into a snarl.

“I'll thank you not to speak so incredibly disrespectfully to my pet.” Castiel's tone of voice was deadly, and even though it wasn't directed at Sam, made him whimper. “I'll thank you not to continue to speak to him at all.”

Brady raised his hands in defeat. “Sorry, man. It's just that we went to school together. I missed the guy.”

“And now he's under my protection. My care. And you can move along, and forget about seeing him here.” Castiel's words dripped with threat, some of which finally seemed to be getting through to Brady. Castiel released him, and he took a quick step backwards, tugging on his shirt to straighten it. 

“Y-yeah. Yeah. Okay.” Brady nodded, turned on his heel, and walked away. Castiel watched him go, shooting daggers at his back as he left the party.

Sam, for his part, had his arms wrapped around himself and was shivering, tears trailing down his cheeks. Castiel tsked softly, and pulled Sam against his chest, wrapping him in a warm, safe embrace. When Sam continued to tremble, Castiel scooped him up in a bridal carry – right in the middle of the party – and carried him towards an empty table in a darkened corner. He took a seat in a chair, settling Sam across his lap.

Sam wasn't even sure what he was feeling as Castiel rocked him, and soothed him, brushed his hair back and kissed him. Seeing Brady again had been a stab through his heart – a vicious reminder of everything he'd lost, both before and after he'd been taken. A humiliation even deeper than all of the ones he'd suffered under Castiel's hand.

Sam became aware, slowly, that some of the people who had witnessed the scene with Brady were approaching Castiel with concern, asking after Sam's wellbeing. Castiel gave them appreciative smiles, and assured them that Sam was all right. And somehow, safe in Castiel's arms, Sam really, truly was okay. His trembling stopped, and he was able to draw slightly deeper breaths. Castiel felt the change in his body language.

“I think we'll head home now, dear one. I think you've been through quite enough for one night. Can you walk?” Castiel's tone was solicitous.

Sam nodded, and climbed off of Castiel's lap to stand on trembling legs. Castiel led the way, an arm securely around Sam's waist. Sam had never been more grateful for anything than he was for the quiet isolation of the limousine – he wasn't sure he'd ever want anyone to look at him, ever again.

The stress and the heartbreak of the evening swept over him, leaving him trembling and exhausted. He fell asleep in Castiel's arms, before they even made it back to the compound.


	23. Retribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peeps, please meet the latest addition to my High Inquisitor team: [Scarlet Ribbons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Ribbons/pseuds/Scarlet_Ribbons), who's an amazing artist and writer (#jealous) who's graced me with amazing fanworks. Go and check her out.
> 
> I hope this one is okay. :)  
> I love you guys so much. You make my days brighter. Please never stop with the incredibly kind feedback.

When Sam woke, warm and comfortable in Castiel's arms and Castiel's bed, it took him a moment to figure out where the sick feeling of dread in his stomach was coming from.

_Brady._

He couldn't help the soft whimper, and twisted against Castiel, burying his face in the narrow space between Castiel's chest and the bed. It was a little difficult to breathe, but worth it, for the slightly less exposed feeling creeping through him.

There was a soft cough from above him. Castiel shifted, his arm around Sam tightening. Sam squashed himself harder against Castiel, who pulled back a little. “ _Solnishko_? What is it, dear one?”

Sam didn't have the words to explain why he was so distressed. How was he supposed to explain how very much he'd lost, how much last night had hurt, how much it _still_ hurt, when he knew Castiel felt he'd given Sam so much in return? He shook his head a little, cheek pressed against Castiel's chest. He managed to choke out “B-Brady...” 

Castiel stroked his hair gently. “Ah. Yes. Brady. Your Brady's had a bit of a rough night.”

Sam's blood froze.

“After a bit of breakfast, we'll head down downstairs and visit him.” Another fond squeeze, Castiel not seeming to notice that Sam had gone absolutely still, and wasn't breathing.

Sam followed blindly as Castiel led him to the ensuite, was unresisting as Castiel helped him in the shower, and readied him for his day. Jonah joined him on his cushion for breakfast. Normally having Jonah so close would have soothed him, but even the warm brush of Jonah's thigh against his own didn't help, and the food tasted like ash in his mouth.

At the edges of his awareness, he saw Castiel tousle Jonah's hair, and heard the instruction for Jonah to return to their room. With every fibre of his being, Sam wished he could follow, and not face what was coming. Spend some time with Jonah curled in his lap, holding him tight, and blocking out the rest of the world.

Castiel took his hand and guided him from the suite and to the elevator, Sam trembling from head to foot. He clenched his eyes tightly shut.

There was a short walk down the cement hallway, cool and rough under Sam's bare feet, and Sam heard Castiel converse softly in Russian with some of his men. Whatever was said, Castiel seemed to find it humorous, and chuckled warmly. The door was opened, and Sam was pulled along in Castiel's wake.

Cold... it was so cold that Sam imagined that he'd see his own breath, if he could make himself open his eyes. There was a wheezing breath, and someone coughed wetly.

“Look, _solnishko_.” Castiel's voice, velvet covered steel, his lips soft against Sam's cheek.

Brady, collapsed and broken, in the far corner of the room. He still had remnants of the tuxedo he'd been wearing. His head was bowed, but lifted when he heard Castiel's words.

Sam recoiled violently. One of Brady's blue eyes had been gouged out, and the cheek beneath it was coated with crusted, drying blood. The other cheekbone had a vicious gash on it – Sam could see white bone through the blood still seeping from it. The front of his shirt was streaked with blood, and Sam clearly saw bootprints on it. Something was wrong with the shape of both of his legs, bullet holes ripped through the fine fabric of his pants, soaked with blood.

Brady coughed again, bright red blood spraying from his lips, and he hauled in another agonized breath.

Sam's mind stopped dead. He didn't have any way to reconcile the image of what Brady had been – handsome, clever, always with a ready smile – with the broken body on the floor in front of him.

Brady tried to speak, looking up at Sam with his one bloodshot eye, but all he could manage was a wet gurgle.

“Your friend learned the hard way that disrespecting you, and in turn, me, has rather dire consequences.” Castiel's voice was light.

Sam spun, pressing himself against Castiel's front, jamming his face into the crook of Castiel's neck. He was too horrified to speak, too horrified to beg for Castiel's mercy, to beg for Brady's life.

He heard a soft, metallic click, and the sound of the gun going off didn't even surprise him. The wheezing breaths stopped abruptly, and there was silence from the corner behind Sam.

Sam's tears started, and he began to shake. Castiel wrapped an arm around his lower back, and Sam flinched as the hot metal from the gun grazed the skin of his hip. Castiel didn't say anything, and simply held him.

Sam's silent tears shifted into sobs as the reality of what had happened sunk in slowly: it was entirely Sam's own fault that Brady was dead. Brady - gorgeous, smart as a whip and top of their class, with such a bright future, with so much potential. He remembered with a tinge of hysteria the one night they'd both been drunk at a frat party and had kissed – Sam had nursed a bit of a crush on him afterwards, and still did. Except that now, Brady was dead, after what had to be a horrifyingly long night of tortures inflicted by Castiel's men, while Sam slept upstairs, safe in Castiel's arms.

And it was entirely Sam's fault.

He'd had a little sister, Sam remembered suddenly. Emily. And his parents had a summer cottage, where Sam had been invited, but had never had the chance to visit. And now none of them would ever know what had happened to him – it'd be like he suddenly fell off the planet, no chance for closure.

Sam's fault.

Sam's knees went out from under him, but the arm around his lower back caught him, stopped him from falling. Castiel spoke some more words in Russian, and his grip on Sam shifted. He scooped Sam up into his arms, Sam's head limp against his shoulder, his throat tight and aching, tears still pouring from his eyes.

“Ssh, ssh,” Castiel soothed. It didn't help in the slightest. Castiel sighed, and carried Sam from the room, back up the elevator, and back to the suite.

 

*

 

Castiel had deposited him on the cushion in his room, Sam wasn't sure how long ago that had been. He sat staring blankly as Jonah hovered nearby, clearly desperately worried. Jonah had offered him a blanket, water, a pillow... had urgently written “are you okay???” on a piece of paper in blue crayon, held it out to him, held it up in front of his gaze, but Sam simply sat and stared at nothing.

Sam was wracked with guilt. And as desperately as he wanted to apologize, who would he apologize to? Was Brady's ghost going to suddenly appear in the room, like in some hokey television show? Of course not.

Sam's hand twitched in his lap. He'd gotten Brady killed, and had already nearly gotten Jonah killed... and it was only a matter of time before something that he did resulted in someone being brutally tortured, murdered, or both.

Sam was suddenly filled with a strange sort of conviction, a knowledge of what he had to do, and better yet – how to do it. It calmed him somehow, and he was able to meet Jonah's eyes and give him a small smile, which Sam hoped conveyed 'thank you', 'I love you', and 'I'm so sorry', all at once. Judging by the blankness of the stare which Jonah returned, he wasn't so sure his message had gotten through, but still, he had work to do.

His muscles were stiff and his knees popped as he unfolded his tingling legs. He crawled over to the nearest wall – the one behind where the door opened, the one with the mirror against it – and tapped it softly, hearing a hollow noise. He moved his hand a few inches to the right, and tapped again, hearing the same. It didn't take long before he heard a much duller, solid noise, and he rested his hand against the wall where he'd heard it. Jonah was nearby, looking worried and confused, but Sam ignored him.

He positioned himself carefully, kneeling with his shoulder against the wall, pulled back, and _slammed_ his temple against the wall, over the solid spot, as hard as he could.

The pain was blinding, and immensely satisfying, and Sam knew that a hard enough blow would trigger an aneurysm, after which he couldn't be responsible for hurting anyone, ever again. He shrugged off Jonah's panicked grip, and did it again, and again, and again. He heard something crack, wasn't sure if it was part of his skull or the wall, but kept up his efforts.

His door flew open, and through blurry eyes he saw Castiel standing in it, face pale with shock. He rushed to Sam and dropped to his knees before him, cradling Sam's head in his hands.

As much as he wanted to, Sam knew better than to pull against Castiel's grip. He seemed to still be able to think straight, and concluded his efforts hadn't been enough. He sagged forward, and Castiel caught him, resting Sam's head against his shoulder. It took him a moment to realize Castiel was speaking.

“... what the hell were you _doing_??” There was a note of panic, of uncertainty in Castiel's voice that Sam had never heard before. All Sam could do was whimper in response. “We'll get a medic up here to check...”

Sam let the thread of Castiel's voice slip, in favour of sinking into a self-loathing that was so profound it didn't leave space for much of anything else. Eyes closed, he felt gentle touches against him, fingers probing the side of his face and head, setting off satisfying spikes of pain, but they retreated, leaving him feeling a little bereft.

He settled for drifting, voices coming to him slowly or not at all. At one point he thought he heard some sort of power tool, but that had to have been in a dream, surely.

Cruel fingers gripped his shoulders, and Sam's eyes shot open, finding Castiel seated in front of him, his mouth a hard, angry line. Sam's heart stuttered, and he dropped his gaze.

“ _Solnishko_. Can you hear me?” His voice was even and level, without emotion.

Sam nodded hesitantly, too frightened to speak.

“Do you belong to me, _solnishko_?”

Sam blinked, confused. Of course he belonged to Castiel, who else would he belong to? The fingers dug in a little harder, and Castiel's brow wrinkled in a frown, before Sam realized that Castiel was waiting for his answer. “Y-yes, _gospodin_.”

“And do you remember what happened the last time you damaged something that belonged to me?”

Sam's heart lurched, remembering the punishment for breaking the bowl. And then it lurched again - _Jonah_. Which was exactly what he'd had been trying to avoid in the first place. He nodded shakily, wondering if there was ever going to be a time again that he wouldn't want to cry.

The harsh fingers released, and Castiel's hands slid up to bracket the sides of Sam's neck, thumbs resting against his jaw. He tilted Sam's face up to look at him.

Sam stared, seeing Castiel's eyes glittering strangely. It took him a moment to realize that there were _tears_ filling Castiel's eyes, yet they didn't fall.

“You musn't...” Castiel began, before pausing. “You can't _do_ that, _solnishko_.” Sam watched Castiel's throat work, watch him try to pull himself together. Watched him take a deep, bracing breath. When he spoke again, his voice was more steady, his gaze hardening. “I don't know what possessed you to do this, but we'll make sure you don't do it again. Come.”

Castiel hauled Sam to his feet, and dragged him to the centre of the room, where there was very definitely something new: a silver ring, about two inches in diameter, fixed to a silver plate, bolted securely into the hardwood floor. Jonah was kneeling near it, keeping his gaze averted, clutching a pillow to his chest.

Castiel forced Sam first to kneel, and then to lay down on his back, fastening the loop on the back of his collar to the silver ring with a padlock. Sam couldn't lift his head much more than a few inches, which made the collar cut into his throat. Sam whined, panicking, as Castiel stood back up and stared down at him.

“Never.” Ice slipped into Castiel's tone. “ _Never_ damage something that belongs to me, ever again.” One of Castiel's tears slipped down his cheek, and he brushed it away quickly, before turning and leaving the room, slamming the door shut behind him. The sound made both boys jolt.

“ _Sam..._ ” Jonah's voice was a breath against Sam's ear. He helped Sam to shift the collar a little, so that the wretched ring was a little off to the side, and Sam could lay against the floor without it being jammed into the back of his neck, and without him being choked. It took some time and careful effort, but he managed to work the cushion underneath Sam, and covered him with the blanket. He knelt at Sam's side, one hand resting gently against Sam's forehead, the other over his heart.

Sam simply let Jonah do what he wanted to do. He stared up at the blank ceiling, at the shade over the skylight. His mind was empty - he didn't seem to be able to keep up the level of despair that had torn through him, and when it abated, he wasn't left with much. He did wonder vaguely how long Castiel was going to leave him like this, and if he'd earned Jonah another stay in the basement. Despite the warm cushion and blanket, Sam felt a pervasive sort of cold, one that he couldn't shake, and left him shivering. Jonah curled up against his side, his head resting on Sam's shoulder and pressed close, but it didn't help much.

 

*

 

Sam drifted. He didn't have the slightest idea how much time had passed. Jonah was there continuously, offering him sips of cool water, the occasional mouthful of food, and gentle touches in between bouts of unconsciousness which were too brief, too disturbed to truly be called sleep.

He'd gently rolled Sam onto his side a couple of times, and carefully helped him pee into one of the cups from the bathroom, which left Sam feeling humiliated and sickened.

Sam stared, eyes glassy, up at the ceiling, and despite Jonah's attentions, thought about how wretchedly lonely he was. His despair at costing Brady his life was marbled through with regret about how he'd upset Castiel so badly that he hadn't even come back – not even once, that Sam could remember. It was coloured, too, by the past and future tortures that he earned his closest friend, the one who was caring for him so lovingly.

More than anything, Sam simply _didn't want to exist_ , but Castiel had made it clear that not existing wasn't an option, and Sam tore his own heart apart looking for a reason to keep on fighting, and found nothing.

And so he stared, blankly, up at the ceiling, and waited.

 

*

 

Sam jolted awake at the sensation of someone fumbling at the back of his collar. Thinking it was Jonah attempting to free him, he rolled and lurched and harshly cut off his own air supply. He coughed, choking, and the person crouched in front of him resolved into _Castiel_ , not Jonah. With a concerted effort, he stilled himself as Castiel removed the padlock, and freed him from the ring set into the floor.

Castiel stood, and Sam slowly raised himself up to sitting, keeping his head bowed. He'd been baffled, before, by the expressions on Castiel's face, the tears and the anger, and he was afraid of what he might find there now, so he didn't look. Mostly, he was afraid to see the self-loathing he'd been wracked with reflected there.

A quick glance across the room showed Jonah asleep a small distance away, curled into a ball, enveloped in a soft blanket.

“Come.” A hand lowered itself into Sam's line of sight, and Sam took it, climbing to his feet on shaking legs.

Sam allowed Castiel to move him as he wished, to wash him and shampoo and condition his hair, to assist him with brushing his teeth. He snuck occasional glances at Castiel's face, but his expression was neutral. Castiel even eased off Sam's leather cuffs and collar, leaving them in a tidy pile on the vanity, leaving Sam feeling stripped bare and lost. His heartbeat began to ratchet up as Castiel dressed him in the simple white scrubs, knowing that it probably meant they were leaving the suite, and both other times Sam had left the suite in the scrubs he had been hurt very, very badly.

Sam made a conscious effort of will to shove down his fear where no one could see it as he was guided to the limousine, where he sat curled on the floor between Castiel's legs. Castiel stroked his hand through Sam's hair, over and over, and Sam clung pathetically to the soothing touches, feeling them calm something inside him. He wanted to reach out and grab Castiel's leg, holding it tight, but he didn't think he could handle being told not to, so he kept his hands clenched in his lap.

When the limousine rolled to a stop, he glanced up and through the tinted window. They were stopped before a menswear store, and Sam has absolutely no idea why. He trembled as Castiel led him inside, a warm hand against Sam's lower back guiding him. Castiel ignored the smiling salesgirl, and guided Sam towards a back corner of the store.

“Mr. Krushnic!” An elderly man greeted him warmly, a tape measure draped around his neck.

“James. Good afternoon. I need this one outfitted for a dinner on the town, casual.” Castiel positioned Sam in front of the man, before turning and having a seat in a nearby chair.

Sam stayed perfectly still as the man gave him a warm smile. He reached for his tape measure, and as he moved to take a measurement of Sam's neck, when it brushed Sam's skin, Sam recoiled violently.

“Sam!” Castiel reprimanded, and Sam froze, trying not to hyperventilate.

“Skittish, this one is. I'm not going to hurt you, boy.” The tailor gentled him, and reached again to take the measurement of his neck.

Sam cast a panicked look at Castiel, who was watching him, utterly calm, from the chair. Sam was intensely uncomfortable with the man's hands on him, even if it was over the thin clothes – it wasn't Castiel touching him, which meant it was _badevilwrong_. When the man touched high on the inside of Sam's thigh, Sam jerked backwards out of his reach, stumbled, and fell on his ass.

“ _Sam_. Come here.” Castiel was frowning and pointing at the floor, at a spot just to the side of his chair. Sam chose to crawl there, and curled up, his knees pulled up and arms wrapped around them, feeling incredibly exposed and vulnerable, confused and upset and he simply wanted to _go home_. He pressed his face into his knees, silently hoping that Castiel's next plans involved heading back to the limo.

Castiel's hand rested gently against the crown of Sam's head. He sighed deeply. “ _Solnishko._ I have some plans which, regrettably, require you to be clothed properly. I need you to be patient and still with James here. He has my permission to touch you. Do you understand?”

 _Permission._ Sam nodded, trying to gather his courage. He unfolded himself and climbed to his feet, doing his best to follow Castiel's instructions. He was stiff as a board as the tailor took his measurements, eyes shut and breathing fast and shallow, but managed not to flinch away from his touches.

“Does he dress left or right?” The tailor clearly wasn't directing the question at Sam.

“Honestly, I wouldn't know.” Castiel chuckled. “We'll assume left.”

A few more gentle touches, and the tailor moved away. Sam's eyes flickered open, and found Castiel's, who was smiling at him, clearly pleased. Sam heaved in a deeper, relieved breath, and managed a tiny smile at Castiel, which in turn made Castiel smile even more broadly.

The man returned with some packages and a shoebox, depositing them and then wandering off again. This time he returned holding a pair of pants and a crisp white dress shirt. Castiel stood, stretching, and took the items from the tailor. Sam picked up the rest of the packages, and Castiel led the way to a spacious fitting room, Sam trailing dutifully behind.

Once there, Castiel grabbed Sam around the waist, hauling him in against his chest, causing everything in Sam's arms to fall haphazardly as Castiel kissed him deeply. Sam was too shocked to kiss back properly, but he tried. It was a long moment before Castiel released him.

Hands on Sam's body, Castiel guided him to stand in the middle of the space. He lifted Sam's shirt up and off, and lowered Sam's pants, leaving him naked and shivering, but not daring to move.

One article of clothing at a time, Castiel dressed Sam, with lingering touches on Sam's skin. Snug boxer briefs, silky socks, an undershirt, the pants, and finally the shirt. He even knelt to slide Sam's feet into the stiff, shiny leather shoes. Sam had never had fabric against his skin that was as soft and as fine as his current clothes were. And the unceasing touches had left him deeply relaxed, breathing slow, deep, and calm.

Castiel cradled Sam's head in his hands, pulling him in for another long kiss, before kissing the tip of his nose, and then his forehead. “You look perfect. Come, we have a dinner date.”

Sam's heart leapt into his throat.


	24. Date Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys!! ♥

Castiel permitted Sam beside him on the bench, in the limousine. He smoothed the fabrics against Sam's skin, straightened cuffs, and waffled between two and three buttons undone, on Sam's shirt. He settled on three.

The ride to the restaurant was fairly quick, and Castiel tugged Sam out of the limo, hand held firmly in his own. Sam didn't even get a chance to see the name of the restaurant before being hustled inside. It was fairly crowded, the men in suits and the women in fancy dresses, dripping with jewels. Sam said a quick, silent thanks that he wasn't one of the ones decked out in shimmering metal this time.

The host led the way to a table in a more quiet, secluded alcove. There was a young man there, blonde, glasses, and a sharp suit. He smiled broadly when he saw Castiel.

“Damian. Good to see you.” Castiel smiled and shook the man's hand. He guided Sam into a chair next to his, and had a seat.

Sam sat a little curled into himself, not certain if this 'Damian' was going to be a threat or not. Subtly, under the guise of moving a little closer to the table, he shifted his hair towards Castiel's. He shot Castiel a nervous look, but Castiel was still smiling at Damian.

A waiter appeared at Castiel's shoulder, placing a tumbler of what Sam assumed was some sort of whiskey in front of him, and a glass of ice water in front of Sam. Castiel picked up his glass and held it up towards Damian, who touched the rim of his own glass against it. Both men drank, and Sam kept his hands folded in his lap, trying not to shoot covetous glances at the amber liquid in Castiel's glass.

Castiel lowered his empty hand to Sam's thigh and squeezed gently, and Sam was able to get a little more air in his chest.

“So this is your latest, is it?” Damian asked Castiel, softly.

Sam bristled. He wasn't Castiel's _latest_ , he was Castiel's _only_. It took him another moment to remember he didn't have any claim on Castiel. Something about Sam's expression set Damian to laughing, which Castiel echoed. Their combined laughter made Sam blush blotchily, and lower his gaze.

“You're all right.” Castiel soothed, another gentle squeeze on his thigh. And then, to Damian, with a wide smile, “Go on, then.”

Damian peered at Sam, and made a show of pretending to concentrate. “All right. Let me guess. Daddy issues, praise kink, unrequited love. You probably can't even brush your own damned teeth in the morning without obsessing over what Cas would think about you missing a spot in the back.”

Sam reeled under the derision in the man's voice. He blinked down at his own hands, which were twisting tightly together, just beside Castiel's. Somehow, his own hands and Castiel's seemed to be different distances away, like he was viewing them through a kaleidoscope. Blood pounded in his ears, but it wasn't loud enough to block out Damian's next words.

“I bet I could get you to do just about anything if I called you a good boy and promised that you’d sleep next to me, even though you can’t even remember that having a warm bed should be a basic human right and not a luxury.”

A truly ugly feeling was working its jagged way up through the numbness of Sam's shock. 

“Jesus, Cas, where did you even find this kid?” Damian tossed back the rest of his drink, and the waiter materialized with a fresh one, only to vanish again.

Sam didn't even hear Castiel's soft response. His hearing seemed to have faded out, and a haze of grey had crept across his vision. He wasn't sure what he'd done to earn such hateful words from Damian, but he felt as though his soul, his entire _existence_ had been laid bare, by a few simple words. As though Sam's unwavering devotion, his obedience and loyalty were nothing more than trite artifacts of how he'd been manipulated. As though Castiel had preyed on his weaknesses, his needs, to mold him into the creature he'd become. 

None of that was true, surely. It couldn't be true. _Gospodin_ cared for him. Loved him.

_Unrequited love._

Sam's hands clenched as he fought a sudden wave of fury. This _Damian_ didn't know anything about anything. He couldn't begin to understand the relationship that Sam and Castiel shared, its depth and complexity. Couldn't understand the peace that Sam seemed to be able to bring to Castiel, through his service.

Sam startled at the tight grip on his right wrist. His gaze darted up, and found Castiel's upon him. He noticed for the first time that plates of food had been placed before the three of them, and that Castiel and Damian had already begun to dine. Sam unclenched a little, loosening his hands and the muscles in his shoulders under Castiel's calm gaze.

Sam ate his way through multiple courses, the fork and knife feeling very, very strange in his hands. He kept his gaze down, away from Damian, and tried to pretend he wasn't there. He ignored the conversation between Castiel and the man, in favour of concentrating on what was on his plate.

No matter what he ate, the delicious salad, beef so tender it melted on his tongue... everything was tainted with a sour bitterness at how handily his entire existence had been dismissed. He wanted the dinner to be over, wanted it to just be Sam and _gospodin_ again, needed it urgently.

The men finished their meals, and Castiel begged their pardon to go use the washroom. Sam moved to stand as well, but a firm hand on his shoulder kept him in his chair.

Damian regarded him over the rim of his glass for a long moment, after Castiel had vanished from view, before speaking. His eyes flickered across the faint bruising still visible at Sam's temple. “The suicidal thoughts. Attempts. I'm thinking it's a either a lack of attention from him, or knowing that you love someone who'll never genuinely love you back.”

Sam drew back a little, frowning. For the first time all evening, the man was blatantly incorrect. He was suicidal, sure, but not for the reasons Damian was suggesting. Sam plucked up his courage and tried to defend himself. “Y-you don't know anything.” His voice was a great deal smaller than he would have liked.

Damian settled for smirking at him. “Careful. You wouldn't want to upset Castiel by annoying me, would you?”

Sam choked, the flash of fear freezing the breath in his chest. Damian could tell Castiel anything, anything at all, and Sam would be in for a world of misery.

“Don't bother apologizing. Pets should be seen, not heard.” Damian sneered at him, before taking another sip of his drink.

Sam lowered his head and his gaze again, tears pricking in his eyes, feeling wretched and worthless and completely out of his depth. Castiel's gentle squeeze on the nape of his neck a moment later made him jolt violently.

“That's enough, Damian. Leave the boy alone.” Castiel chided gently, slipping into his chair.

“My bad.” Damian chuckled. “But in my defense, you _did_ invite my analysis.”

“Psychologists, all the same.” Castiel grinned. He tossed his napkin onto his plate. “It's been good to see you. We should do this more often.”

 _Leave me at home next time, for the love of God._ Sam railed in his mind.

“Definitely. It's been fun.” Damian toasted Castiel one more time, and mockingly raised his glass to Sam, before draining it and leaving the table.

With every step away from the table that Damian took, Sam was able to relax a little bit more. His focus shifted back to where it ought to be, and he edged a little closer to Castiel. Castiel stroked a hand back through his hair, and Sam's eyes fluttered shut. In an attempt to calm himself, he envisioned himself on his cushion beside Castiel's desk, safe and relaxed. A loud burst of laughter from a nearby table knocked him out of it.

“Come. Shall we go for a walk, near the water?” Castiel's voice was deep and calm. And as much as Sam wanted to be obedient, his thoughts were a maelstrom, his hands clenching on nothing, and he felt as though he'd been shredded to ribbons. He managed to shake his head, jerkily, no.

 _Home. Take me home. Please, please take me home._ Sam couldn't quite get the words out.

“Come.” Castiel slipped a little more command into his voice, standing, and some part of Sam responded to it unthinkingly, moving to his side. He grasped Sam's hand gently, and pulled him from the restaurant.

Once in the open air (after a quick scan of the area revealing no Damian) Sam was a little more comfortable. Castiel led him down a boardwalk of sorts, lit intermittently overhead, downwards and towards the beach. Despite it being a clear night, with a full moon above, there weren't very many people about.

Sam's new shoes were slippery on the sand, but he followed Castiel to a spot just above the damp strip of sand, near the water's edge. Castiel, surprisingly, sat, and pulled Sam down with him. Sam curled up against Castiel's side, and Castiel looped an arm around his back, pulling him snug.

While it wasn't the suite, wasn't Jonah and his comfortable cushions, it was still just Sam and _gospodin_ , which was a balm on Sam's nerves. He spoke without meaning to - “I d-don't like your friend.”

Castiel grinned and kissed Sam's temple. “No, I suppose you wouldn't.”

Feeling helplessly unmoored, desperate for something he couldn't even put a name to, Sam crawled into Castiel's lap, wrapping arms around him. Castiel held him tight against his chest, running soothing hands up and down Sam's back.

Something cracked in Sam's chest, and it oozed the realization of how desperately Sam loved Castiel, and how agonizingly much he needed Castiel to love him in return. Damian's words gnawed at him, forced him to see how transparently, pathetically desperate his need for Castiel was. 

“I love you, _gospodin_.” A choked whisper, and terror at what Castiel's reaction would be.

Tightening of Castiel's arms around him, Castiel's face nuzzled against Sam's jaw. “I know you do, sweet boy. You show me every day the depths of your devotion.”

_Say it back, say it back, say it back..._

A few long heartbeats of time, and the realization that Castiel wasn't going to say it. A sob tore its way out of his throat, and Castiel held Sam tight as he cried, rocking him, on the beach in the moonlight.

 

*

 

Sam was shivering, chilled inside and out, before Castiel walked him back the the limousine. He couldn't even find it within himself to care about the sand he tracked in, as Castiel lowered him to the floor, bracketing him between his legs.

Sam felt exhausted, profoundly so, and despite how tightly he'd clung to Castiel on the beach, had no desire to be touched by him right now. He tolerated the gentle touches, still under Castiel's hand, but didn't revel in them as he usually did.

It was with relief that he returned to the compound, to the suite, and to Jonah's warm embrace in their room. Jonah was generous with his touches and kisses, so very warm in Sam's arms, which contrasted sharply with cold chasm which seemed to have opened in his chest over the course of the evening.

Jonah seemed to sense that something was terribly wrong, but that Sam either wouldn't, or couldn't, talk about it. Rather than pressuring, Jonah just made sure that Sam was warm and comfortable, safe and hydrated and not for a minute left alone.

Sam had a feeling that Jonah might have been left alone a lot, when he was in a bad space, and he didn't want that for Sam. Sam drank up his attentions, making a conscious decision to allow himself be comforted. Slowly, the gaping wound in his chest scabbed over, leaving Sam numb, rather than heartbroken.

A couple of days passed, and neither Sam nor Jonah were called to serve, or permitted out of their room. Boris even brought the bowls of food to them, glaring down at them as they ate, and whisking their bowls away when done.

Sam wasn't sure if Castiel had perhaps gone on another trip, or if he was deliberately limiting their time together, for reasons that Sam didn't understand. Perhaps Sam had been too needy, too clingy, and Castiel was deliberately putting some space in between them.

Perhaps Sam shouldn't have confessed what he did. But it wasn't as though Castiel seemed surprised by it, he just kind of shrugged it off, as if it were already a given. Still, the more Sam thought about it, the more he wished he hadn't said it.

Enough time passed that Sam went through the stages of 'don't want to see him' to 'miss him' to 'miss him desperately'. Somewhere in there, Boris had come in, and instructed that Jonah was now permitted to attempt to speak, to attempt to regain his voice.

Sam and Jonah sat crosslegged, facing each other, knees touching and hands held together. Jonah looked self-conscious and frightened and hopeful all at once. He cleared his throat a couple of times, whispered something Sam couldn't hear, and managed to croak out, “Sam...” in a very rusty voice.

Sam lit up with a huge grin, which Jonah echoed, and Sam watched the tension fall from his shoulders, as though a huge weight had been lifted.

“H-hi. I... I love you.” Jonah's voice was wrecked, unsteady and gravelly, but it was still a voice. Sam lunged at him, wrapping him in a hug and knocking him flat, peppering him with kisses as Jonah laughed beneath him.

Some time later, the door opened, and Boris entered again. “Come.”

Both boys sobered, and followed Boris from the room.


	25. Penance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are too good to me. It's been almost two years since this story was started, and because of you guys, your amazing and kind feedback, it's still going.
> 
> I love you. ♥

Castiel was seated in the living room, and there was a dark-haired man sitting on the chair opposite. Sam somehow thought he looked familiar, though he couldn't fathom where he'd know the man from.

“ _Solnishko, malysh_ , come kneel, please.”

“Ah, but they're both so beautiful. Selfish, Krushnic, to keep them both for yourself.” The man's eyes raked over Sam and Jonah. Sam felt desperately exposed, in just his cuffs and collar. And Jonah had nothing, but his eyes had taken on that blank look, that look that Sam knew meant he wasn't entirely there, that he was protecting himself. Both boys moved silently to kneel between the two seated men.

Jonah was closer to the stranger, who leaned forward and stroked a hand through his hair, before gripping tightly and wrenching Jonah's head back, admiring the long line of this throat. Jonah simply let it happen. Sam's fists clenched.

“Cristian here was the one that offered two and a half million dollars for you, _solnishko_.”

The party, that was where Sam recognized him from, the party. Sam remembered catching sight of the hungry stares, when he'd forgotten to keep his eyes down.

Cristian released Jonah's hair, and Jonah slowly lowered his head back down, into a more natural position, his eyes still eerily blank.

“Five. Five for the pair.” Sam shivered at the naked, blatant _want_ in the man's voice.

Castiel chuckled. “Now who's being greedy?”

“Krushnic, come _on_.” Sam caught the man grind the heel of his hand against his crotch, out of the corner of his eye.

“I think maybe we'll give _solnishko_ the chance to explain why he belongs to me, and why I shouldn't take you up on your offer.” 

Sam froze. Both men were staring at him.

“Well, dear one? Why are you mine?” The corner of Castiel's mouth quirked up into a smile.

“I... I love you.” The words bubbled up out of Sam, completely out of his control.

The dark-haired man barked out a sharp laugh. “Good Lord, Krushnic. You've got that one hanging off your coattails. Give me this one.” He nudged Jonah's thigh with one shoe.

Castiel continued addressing Sam as though there'd been no interruption. “Yes, I know. But tell me why you _deserve_ to be mine. Why you deserve the luxuries you're afforded here. Why you swim in the infinity pool, rather than rot in a cell.”

Sam's mouth opened, and nothing came out. He didn't have an answer to Castiel's question, because deep down, after all of the pain _(death)_ that had been caused because of Sam's own actions, he truly didn't deserve any of it. He _deserved_ to be dead, so that he couldn't hurt anyone else, ever again.

Both men were staring at him, waiting for him to speak. And as much as Sam knew he had to choose his words wisely, or risk losing Castiel, or Jonah, or both... Sam didn't have any answer but the truth. He fixed his eyes on the floor.

His first word came out as a croak, and he had to start again. “I... I d-don't deserve the... the good things that _gospodin_ gives me. I know I don't. But...” Sam straightened just a little. “But I'll... I d-do my best to earn them. S-someday maybe... maybe I'll p-prove myself enough to earn them.”

Sam's eyes darted up quickly enough to catch the fond smile on Castiel's face. Cristian sat back, hard, with a melodramatic roll of his eyes. “Why do you even let them _speak_?? I'd just keep them gagged, and not have to listen to their nonsense.”

“Because sometimes, they things they say are important. If you'd listen to them with any frequency, you might discover that for yourself.”

Sam's heart leapt, daring to hope that neither of them would be given to Cristian, no matter the amount of money involved. 

“You can have one of the boys from the basement, but these two are mine.”

“I hate you, Krushnic. Do you have any blondes?” Cristian stood, ignoring the boys on the floor before him.

“One or two, yes, I believe. Come, let's go see. _Solnishko, malysh_ , return to your room.”

Sam stayed kneeling for a long moment, after Castiel and Cristian had left. He was completely overwhelmed, incredibly grateful not to have been sold, nor to have lost Jonah, but sickened, too, by the thought of the poor boys – multiple boys – down in the basement, and what waited for them. He gave himself a shake, and reached over to grip Jonah's thigh. Jonah didn't respond, but stood when Sam pulled him to his feet, and walked when Sam led the way down the hallway.

Sam's steps stuttered to a halt when he noticed that the door in the hallway – the locked one, with the keycard reader – was slightly ajar. His heart stuttered in his chest. The door had always kind of bugged him... he knew it was where certain implements for bondage and punishment were kept, but was dying to know the extent of what was behind the door. Castiel must've been showing Cristian something, and Cristian neglected to close it properly... never, not once had Castiel ever forgotten.

Sam dithered, uncertain of whether he dared peek inside. Making up his mind, he guided Jonah, still glassy-eyed, back to their room, sat him on the cushion and wrapped a blanket around him. Afterwards, he slipped back into the hallway, and towards the unlocked door.

His heart was hammering. He listened hard, but there was no sound of Castiel or his friend returning. He rested a hand on the doorknob, half expecting to be burned or shocked, but there was nothing. Hauling in a shaking breath, he pushed the door open.

Sam stopped dead. It was the 'torture dungeon', all right, the one he'd always worried existed. There was a spanking bench and X-shaped cross, both covered in restraints. The walls were lined with a dizzying array of BDSM gear. The room smelled of warm wood and new leather. Somewhat hysterically, Sam noticed his penis-gag muzzle, hanging amongst half a dozen other gags on the wall, above a selection of floggers.

Sam's eyes locked on the flogger at the end of the row. It looked incredibly heavy, and Sam could see how stiff the leather falls looked. He swallowed hard, imagining it leaving welts, the harsh edges slicing his skin.

The thought of his own skin bloodied brought Brady's blood-caked face firmly to the forefront of his mind. The despair and horror swamped him again, leaving him absolutely desperate for some sort of penance. Surely being whipped until he bled would help ease some of his own guilt? Surely it would. It had to, because Sam couldn't live with it the way he currently felt.

Sam initially imagined Jonah wielding it, but couldn't stand, even in his thoughts, the heartbroken expression Sam knew Jonah would wear as a result of Sam's request. And if Sam encouraged Jonah to whip him, and Jonah did it, he knew Castiel's retaliation would be biblical in scope. He wasn't sure Jonah would survive it.

Sam crept into the room, careful not to touch anything else, and gingerly lifted the flogger from its hook. It was even heavier than it looked. He tiptoed back out to the hall, closing the door most of the way shut behind him.

He'd have closed it entirely if he were sure that his determination to request the whipping was going to hold up. He hated the part of himself that wanted to return the whip to its spot and leave, closing the door firmly and removing the temptation. To return to his cushion at Jonah's side, and be a good pet, and try to live somehow with what he'd done to Brady.

Giving his head a little shake, he tried to strengthen his resolve, even as terror tore through him. He walked slowly to the front door of the suite, and lowered himself to kneel before it. He straightened his arms in front of him, holding the flogger draped across both palms, lowered his head, and waited for Castiel's return.

 

*

 

By the time the door opened, Sam was aching everywhere. His arms were trembling, still holding out the whip. He kept his gaze on the carpet, watched Castiel close the door without comment, toe off his shoes and set them inside the closet.

“What's this, then, _solnishko_? And where, pray tell, did you get that?” Castiel's voice was low and silky. Sam didn't think he sounded angry – not yet, at least – but curious, more than anything else.

“P-p-please, _gospodin_.” Sam's voice was croaky, his throat dry and tight.

Castiel took the flogger from Sam's hands, and he groaned softly as he lowered his arms, his shoulders incredibly stiff. Sam lifted his eyes high enough to see Castiel's hand wrap around the handle, and he trembled.

“Come into the bedroom with me, and explain yourself a little better.” Castiel moved around Sam, and down the hallway, closing his dungeon's door with a _snap_ that made Sam jolt. Sam crawled after him, not trusting his legs to hold him up. And besides, the crawling might help his case.

“On your cushion.” Castiel gestured, loosening his tie.

Sam curled up on his cushion, feeling small and cowed. Castiel rolled up his sleeves, and sat at the end of the bed, Sam tucked between his legs, the flogger draping from one hand.

Close up, the thing really was quite terrifying, and Sam fought not to second-guess himself. He steeled himself with the thought that Brady had faced far worse.

Sam heard a soft sigh from above him, but Castiel didn't touch him. Accustomed to gentle fingers carding through his hair, Sam felt a little lost without them.

“Tell me, dear one, why you're begging me for a whipping.” There wasn't any anger in Castiel's voice, just something that Sam chose to read as a desire for open and honest communication – for the truth.

Sam's tears started up, and he brushed them away, irritated. “I... I need it, please, _gospodin_.” There was silence from above him, which Sam took as his cue to continue. “B-Brady died b-because of me. There can't... there has to be... there has to be a _cost_ , a price to p-pay for c-causing something like that...”

Gentle fingers gripped his chin and tilted his head upwards, forcing him to look at Castiel, who was utterly calm. “You're seeking absolution at the end of my whip? Penance?”

Sam nodded as best he was able, staring pleadingly up at Castiel, his eyes filled with tears.

“You want me to make you bleed and scream? Will it ease some of the pain in your heart?”

“Y-yes!”

“But you have _malysh_ to atone for your sins, dear one.” It wasn't a threat, it almost felt like a reminder.

Sam clutched desperately at Castiel's shirt. “P-please, no, this... this has nothing to do with him. Please. This... this is you and me. Please.” Sam poured all the pleading he could into his words. 

Castiel seemed to be considering him, and was silent for a long moment. “I'll grant you this request. But _malysh_ will be paying for your foray into a room which you knew better than to enter.”

Overwhelming relief, followed immediately by icy terror. The combination left him weak and shivering.

“Go fetch a towel from the ensuite, dear one.” Castiel ruffled his hair and stood, stretching.

Sam climbed to his feet on very shaky legs, but managed to make it to the ensuite and back, offering Castiel the plush towel. Castiel laid it carefully across the middle of the bed. Gentle hands guided Sam to lay down on his tummy, so that from his navel to his knees, the towel was positioned squarely under him.

Sam began to breathe a little shallowly, fear pushing at the hope for relief. He supposed that the towel was so that Sam wouldn't bleed on the sheets... but Castiel had the spanking bench and the cross in the other room, why was he whipping him face-down on the bed??

“Do you need me to tie you down, _solnishko_?”

Sam's heart rabbited at the thought, but he nodded. He wasn't sure how he was going to be handling it, and didn't trust himself not to try to escape once the blows started. He let Castiel bind his ankles together, and tie them to the end of the bed. His arms were spread wide and fastened to the posts of the headboard. He could squirm a little, but wasn't going anywhere.

 _Be calm. You asked for this. Be calm._ Sam tried to deepen his breathing, but wasn't very successful.

Sam heard the terrifying whoosh of the flogger swinging through the air, and screamed as the harsh leather tore into him. He arched reflexively, trying to get away, but the second blow landed just as hard, moving from Sam's ass to the back of his thighs. Blow after blow after blow, and Sam was awash in pain, imagining his skin flayed from his muscles.

 _Brady_. Sam fought to keep him in his thoughts, as Castiel swung the flogger over and over again. It worked for some time, but after a while, all there was was pain and Sam screaming, sobbing uncontrollably between the blows.

Sam wasn't even aware that Castiel had stopped swinging until the bed dipped near him, and a hand stroked through sweat-damp hair. His sobs wracked his entire frame, and slowly tapered off until they were hiccuping sniffles. Sam heard Castiel's voice, soft, in Russian, and not directed at him. He laid there, limp, as shortly after multiple hands released the ropes and touched the skin of his ass and thighs, cleaning him up, he supposed. Something cool and tingly was sprayed evenly across his skin, and dried tight. The voices left, and the only touch Sam had was Castiel's, tracing gently along the line of his jaw.

“Is that better, _solnishko_?” Castiel kept his voice soft, which Sam appreciated immensely. Sam probed at his feelings, looking for the festering, agonizing pain of ending Brady's life, and finding it neatly cauterized – painful, still, of course, but an infinite improvement. Sam nodded weakly, and Castiel smiled down at him.

“And I'll trust you won't be visiting any spaces that you're not permitted in, in the future, hmm?”

“Y-yes, I... I mean no, I won't...” Sam stumbled over his words, which made Castiel chuckle.

“And what did you think of my playroom, hmm?”

Sam's brain was deep-fried by pain and adrenaline and endorphins, and he struggled to understand the question. He thought maybe Castiel wanted to know how he felt about BDSM. In truth, he'd experimented a little with it, and had enjoyed what he'd done, and in his current broken-open state he was more inclined to admit to the curiosity which had underlaid his earlier fear.

“Y-you... you have a lot of stuff...” Sam began, haltingly. “Why d-didn't you whip me in there?”

Castiel looked thoughtful, from what Sam could see through blurry eyes when he peered up at him. “That room isn't for punishment. It's not for what you sought tonight. It's for play of a particular sort, which both parties enjoy in very different ways.”

Sam thought about that for a moment. He supposed that Castiel was a Dom – because of course he was – and that maybe he had people who were subs, that he scened with in that room.

Sam was startled by the spike of pure jealousy that ripped through him at the thought that anyone would be in there with his _gospodin_ other than himself. Sam hadn't ever thought of himself as a sub, per se, but he'd been held down and spanked and had enjoyed it. He supposed this was just like that, only kicking it up a few notches.

“P-please, I could.... I could do that... with you...” Anything to bring him closer to his _gospodin_ , and to keep others away. 

Castiel's mouth quirked up into a smile. “Are you a masochist, then?”

Sam's mouth went dry, beginning to doubt what he'd stepped into here. “I... I don't know...”

“Well, once you're healed, we'll just have to find out.” Castiel's smile down at him was predatory in an entirely new way, and Sam couldn't stop his whimper.


	26. Just Desserts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBH, at this point, [Scarlet_Ribbons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Ribbons/pseuds/Scarlet_Ribbons) deserves coauthor status. She's at least... 49% responsible for this.
> 
> #sorrynotsorry
> 
> ♥

Castiel had solicitously helped him to his feet, helped him to totter back to his room and curl up near Jonah on the cushion, leaving him with murmured instructions not to get the skin on his ass and thighs wet.

Jonah hadn't even moved from the position Sam had put him in earlier, and Sam was immediately and deeply concerned. He moved close in front of Jonah, cradled Jonah's head in his hands, and kissed his forehead, each of his cheeks, the tip of his nose before pressing his lips against Jonah's, closed, sweet and chaste.

Jonah gasped under Sam's kiss, and blinked rapidly, several times. Sam smiled reassuringly at him, pulling back a little.

“W-what happened?” Jonah's voice was raspy.

“Nothing. We're... we're okay. We're safe.” Sam tried to shove down his horror at the fate of the boy Cristian selected down hard, where Jonah couldn't see it.

Jonah, apparently, saw right through him. His voice was flat. “He chose one of the others.”

Sam swallowed hard.

“That's... that's the best thing that could have happened to us.” Jonah soothed, stroking Sam's cheek. Sam wasn't sure when Sam-comforting-Jonah had become Jonah-comforting-Sam, but he was grateful for it. He held the hand against his cheek with one of his own, turned his head a little and kissed Jonah's palm.

“H-how do you know...” Sam began in a whisper.

“I'd hear their screams, sometimes.” That strange flatness returned to Jonah's voice.

Sam frowned. He'd spent quite a bit of time in the basement himself, but hadn't ever heard anyone else being tortured. In some twisted way, he thought that might've been a kindness that his _gospodin_ had bestowed upon him – a soundproof room. And in some twisted way, he was grateful for it.

By the time Boris appeared with two bowls of food, Sam was developing a progressively deeper ache from his welts. Whatever had been sprayed on it had apparently had anaesthetic effects, but once they wore off, the pain was enough to drive him to lay on his stomach.

Jonah had choked when he'd seen them, and reported that although there were several spots where the skin was broken, that something was sealing the wounds, keeping them from bleeding and oozing.

Sam could tell that Jonah was itching to ask about the injuries, but clearly had no intention of pressuring Sam for information that he wasn't yet ready to share. And it was just one more thing that Sam was grateful for.

 

*

 

Several days passed, and the welts and bruising decorating Sam's skin healed. There wasn't anything left except faint yellow shadows when Castiel entered their room again.

Sam turned his face up and smiled shyly. Jonah lowered his head and gaze respectfully.

“Come, both of you. _Solnishko_ has earned _malysh_ some time in the basement.”

Jonah's head shot up, and his gaze, hurt and confused, found Sam's. Sam's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He'd forgotten entirely about the punishment Castiel had promised for Jonah, for Sam entering the playroom.

Both boys trailed after Castiel, holding hands and walking closely together. Down the elevator and down the hall in the basement, to the cell which Sam had spent so very much time in. Sam had balked in the doorway, and it took Jonah pulling him to get him to enter the room.

“On the bed, _solnishko_.” Castiel guided him with a gentle hand on his elbow. Jonah had to pry Sam's hand out of his own.

“ _G-gospodin_ , p-please...” Sam whimpered. As Castiel sat him on the edge of the bed, Boris and Natasha entered the room, bearing the heavy steel cuffs and collar, and a good amount of chain.

“Hush.”

Jonah kept his eyes on Sam as the steel was fastened on him, holding himself perfectly still, save for the tremors that ran through him. Sam wasn't sure what he saw in Jonah's eyes – resignation, acceptance... forgiveness?

Sam's heart stuttered when the nurse entered, with her carryall of objects. He turned his head away, only to have a vicious grip in his hair wrench his head back around, forcing him to watch what was being done to Jonah.

Sam remembered the phantom sensation of the feeding tube in the back of his throat as Jonah's throat worked, the nurse guiding the tube into position. Boris, at the same time, was guiding the other end of the tube in through the nose hole of the leather hood.

The last thing Jonah would have been able to see was tears pouring down Sam's cheeks – his eyes were fixed on Sam's, wide and frightened, as Boris filled his mouth with the gag and enveloped his head in the tight leather hood.

Sam wasn't even aware that Castiel's grip in his hair has softened to a caress.

Jonah was forced spread-eagled, face-first against the wall once the nurse was done with the adjustments on the feeding tube.

Remembering the utter silence, the sound of the heavy leather lash against Jonah's skin was shockingly loud, and made Sam jolt. Castiel sat beside him on the bed as welt after dark red welt was left across Jonah's flawless skin.

Sam could see Jonah's back heaving, and remembered the sensation of choking, of fighting for every breath. Castiel's hand stroked down Sam's back, between the twin rows of rings.

Once Boris was done, Natasha placed the very short sawhorse between Jonah's legs, and Jonah sagged against it as Boris and Natasha took their leave.

Castiel's voice was very soft when he spoke, as though not wanting to spook Sam. “I think,” he began, brushing Sam's hair back from his face, “that rather than watching through the tablet, that this might have a more profound effect.”

Sam's breath stopped in his chest.

“You don't touch him. You don't go near him. You don't speak to him. You don't communicate with him in any way.” Castiel's voice was even and cool.

Every one of Castiel's instructions sank into him, heavy as lead, as profound as the isolation he remembered when he'd been in Jonah's position.

“Do you understand?”

Sam had to force his words out, his throat tight, his face glazed with tears. “Y-yes, _gospodin_.”

“You _will_ watch, while he's being punished or used.” Castiel waited for Sam's shaky nod.

“You may shower, you may use the facilities, you may rest on the bed. You may eat what food is brought to you.” Castiel's voice was gentler, warmer with this part of his instructions.

Sam choked out a sob, and forced his words out again. “Y-yes, _gospodin_.”

“Sweet boy.” Castiel stood, kissed the top of Sam's head, and left the cell.

 

*

 

Though Sam had crawled under the warm, soft blankets (feeling guilty the entire time, his eyes fixed on Jonah, shivering against the wall), and they were every bit as comfortable as he'd imagined them to be, Sam couldn't feel anything other than miserable.

Castiel hadn't been gone long before Boris and Natasha entered... followed by two more men that Sam didn't know. He sat bolt upright, pulling the blankets up over his chest defensively, but all four of them ignored him.

Sam watched as Boris moved near Jonah, unzipped himself and stroked himself into hardness. The other three stood a little farther back, chatting amongst themselves and doing the same.

 _Please, please, lube and prep..._ Sam clenched his eyes shut for a long few seconds, before opening them again, before it counted against him. He did it just in time to see Boris slam into Jonah.

There was a hoarse, muffled scream from under the hood, and every one of Jonah's muscles clenched taut, his fingers clawing at the concrete wall.

Rather than watching Boris pound into his friend, he watched the slow trail of blood down the inside of Jonah's right thigh. It pooled in the crease behind his knee before continuing its slow path.

Boris finished and stripped off the condom, and Natasha was right there to pick up where he'd left off. And then the other two nameless Russians.

All four of them were in good spirits, and even moreso after they'd abused Jonah, their friendly chatter becoming more and more interspersed with laughter. Sam's eyes stayed on Jonah as they trickled out of the cell, closing the door with an echoing bang.

Jonah was trembling, his lower back dipped and his ass stuck out, his skin smeared with his own blood. 

Sam was traumatized, staring blankly at his friend. He spoke, his voice barely a whisper, hopefully too soft for the cameras and microphones. “I'm so sorry, Jonah. So sorry.”

It didn't even matter that he knew Jonah couldn't hear him. He laid back down, curling up into a tight ball of misery, and cried.

 

*

 

Hours passed, before a slight, dark-haired man came in with a bucket of water and a rough cloth, and cleaned the blood from Jonah's skin. He pressed down hard on Jonah's bladder, forcing him to pee, and then rinsed that away, as well. Afterwards, he slathered a thick, white cream across Jonah's hole, working it inside. Jonah was shaking long before he was done. He positioned the sawhorse back between Jonah's legs, and Sam heaved a relieved sigh when Jonah settled against it.

As he was leaving, the nurse returned, with a second woman carrying a tray covered with a silver dome. She set the tray on the bed before him, as the nurse fixed the first syringe of off-white liquid to Jonah's feeding tube.

Sam's eyes darted between the nurse, and the silver dome.

“Eat,” the woman near the bed snapped.

Sam lifted the dome, finding a steak, baked potato, and a mound of steamed vegetables. A fork and a knife. Sam picked them up with shaking hands. He speared a carrot and brought it to his mouth.

While he was certain that it was delicious, it tasted foul in his mouth. Like sorrow, and regret, and overwhelming guilt. Under the woman's watchful eye, he ate his way slowly, mechanically through the food.

He finished his dinner after Jonah did. The woman popped the dome back over his plate, and lifted the tray away. Her and the nurse left together.

Sam curled up into his ball, watching Jonah over the pillow clutched to his chest, for a very long time. He watched Jonah's head nod to the left, before falling against his outstretched arm. He watched Jonah's back, watched his breathing slow as Jonah drifted into sleep. Only once Sam was certain he was going to stay that way did he allow his own eyes to close.

 

*

 

The crack of leather against skin jolted him out of sleep. Jonah's muffled scream followed it, and Sam twisted to see Boris with the same wide leather lash, laying fresh welts over the existing ones. Boris kept it up for a long time, marking Jonah from his shoulders down to his knees before finally stopping. He left afterwards, without so much as a glance at Sam.

Sam stared as the tiny dots of blood where Jonah's welts overlapped slowly grew, glistening red domes, before they slid down his abused skin. Sam found himself ridiculously grateful that at least this time there hadn't been any rape.

Time passed, both boys trembling. The man came to clean Jonah up again, scrubbing at the drying blood, and the nurse with her syringes, and another tray of food for Sam. This one was an omelette, with a rich cheese filling, and it tasted even worse than the steak the night before. The orange juice was like battery acid in Sam's stomach.

Afterwards came the rape. Boris, Natasha, and two men Sam had never seen before.

Sam barely made it to the bathroom in time, before vomiting up his entire breakfast.

 

*

 

Sam was curled in a loose fetal position on the bed, watching Jonah drift in and out of sleep with eyes dry and sore from crying, when Castiel entered, walked to the bed, and sat down beside him.

A gentle hand unstuck Sam's hair from where it had been crusted to his cheek. “Have you learned, _solnishko_?”

Castiel's touch, and even hearing Castiel's voice was soothing on his frayed nerves. He nodded into his sodden pillow.

“Do you need me to continue this treatment of _malysh_?”

“N-” Sam tried to speak, and it turned into a coughing fit. “N-no, please, _gospodin_ , please...”

“Tell me what you've learned.”

Sam swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. “D-don't go where I know I'm not allowed.” He paused, thinking back farther, and continued in a smaller voice. “Don't damage your property.”

Castiel's fingers glanced over where the bruising on his temple had long since faded. “Good. Come, let's go upstairs and get you cleaned up. The men will bring _malysh_ up afterwards. I have a surprise for you.”

Somehow, Castiel's warm smile down at him wasn't particularly comforting.

 

*

 

Castiel had taken him back upstairs, cleaned him top to bottom in the shower in the ensuite, and was dressing him in the formal clothes he'd worn to the restaurant when Boris walked past the bedroom door, holding a pale and shaking Jonah upright by a firm grip on his upper arm.

Sam was able to breathe a little more deeply after that.

A hand on Sam's lower back guided him from the suite, and to the limousine. Sam wished desperately that he could've seen Jonah first, comforted him and made sure he was okay, but Castiel didn't give him the opportunity. And he certainly wasn't foolish enough to ask.

Castiel took him to a restaurant which wasn't quite as upscale and stuffy as the last one had been, and there was no Damian, so it was an infinite improvement. He ate what was put on the table before him, keeping his gaze lowered. Castiel seemed perfectly content to enjoy their meal in silence.

Afterwards, Castiel took his hand, and they walked along the bustling sidewalk as the sun was setting, the limousine following them at a crawl. Sam couldn't help but feel resentful towards the strangers – they were free to do what they wanted, go where they wanted, when Sam had every decision made for him.

Sam's eyes glanced across a boy he _recognized_. Dark hair and eyes, tight little t-shirt and skin-tight jeans. Davis, Sam remembered – one of Sunny Joey's boys. It took Sam another moment to remember that Castiel's men had killed Sunny Joey, and to wonder who Davis's handler was now, before a grip around his waist guided him past the boy, who was staring open-mouthed at Sam.

A few more blocks, Sam keeping his gaze from settling too long on any one person, before Castiel guided him into a theatre. Sam kind of zoned out as Castiel handled the purchase of the tickets, and even bought him a bag of popcorn and a ridiculously-sized drink. As he'd been doing the entire evening, he let Castiel steer him into the darkened auditorium, taking seats towards the back, Sam in the seat to Castiel's right.

The theatre was still mostly empty when the movie started – a handful of people there, other than Castiel and himself. The movie itself was one of those superhero movies, Sam wasn't sure which one, as he'd forgotten to watch the opening sequence, but there was a lot of fighting, noise and explosions and gunfire.

He let the thread of the movie slip, and was thinking about Jonah, hoping that he was okay, when a gunshot went off, seemingly inches from his head, making his ears ring. Castiel jerked beside him and lurched to his feet, and it took Sam far too long to realize that it wasn't special effects – people were actually shooting in the theatre, the other moviegoers screaming and running for the exits.

Sam cowered in his chair, covering his head with his arms, praying he wouldn't get shot. People were yelling in languages Sam didn't understand, but he figured staying put was the best option, that Castiel or his men would gather him up once the dust had settled.

A hard grip on Sam's right wrist yanked him to his feet, and he stumbled after the person who had him, thankful to be removed from the chaos of the theatre. He was led down a narrow hallway, and out a door into the cool evening.

Sam looked up for the first time at the man who had his wrist, seeing dark hair and a twisted, vicious smile. He froze, realizing it wasn't Castiel's men who had him at all – he'd been grabbed by some other faction. Too terrified to fight, he was shoved into a dark-coloured van. A black fabric sack was pulled over his head, and his wrists zip-tied behind his back. He was forced to kneel on the floor of the van, as the men around him conversed softly in Spanish.

 _The Mexicans._ Sam tried not to hyperventilate, his breath hot under the hood. Horrible scenarios flew through his head – he'd seen what was left after other boys had crossed them – mutilated faces, broken limbs, missing extremities... and he was sure they'd want his blood, after what had happened to Sunny Joey.

The only thing that might save him was Castiel's money – a lot of it.

“L-look. I'm... m-my...” Sam wasn't sure how to explain what Castiel was to him to strangers. “M-my... owner...” Something twisted in his gut when the word left his lips, but it was true. “M-my owner w-will p-pay a lot of money to get me back...”

“Oh, trust me, we know.” A deep voice to Sam's right. “We're gonna find out just how much.”

“P-please don't hurt me.” His voice was a tiny, strangled shadow of what it normally was.

It made every single man in the van laugh, and Sam crumpled, head hanging, tears falling to wet the hood.


	27. Negotiations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides* 
> 
> Please, please read the tags. This is not a nice story. It got real dark, real fast.

After a long trip, Sam's knees aching against the floor, he was manhandled from the van. Unable to see, he tripped several times, but the men holding his upper arms kept him upright. He was dragged a fair distance, into some sort of building, and then forced to his knees, breathing hard, his head hanging.

“Good evening.” A deep, smooth voice addressed him. Sam kept his silence. “I'm sure you're wondering why you're here. Let me assure you that while it may seem personal, this is between myself and your _owner_. He took something from me, so I took something from him. You're a means to an end.”

“W-whatever you want, he'll... he'll pay it.” Sam tried to keep the tremor out of his voice.

“I imagine he will. And yet, this is a rather unique opportunity for us. We'd be remiss to allow it to end, without milking it for as much as we can get. If torturing you increases your worth to him, increases his need and desire to have you back, then we'd be foolish not to capitalize on that, don't you think?”

Terror clawed at Sam's insides, and he choked out a sob.

“It's nothing personal.” The man seemed to be trying to reassure him somehow. A large, warm hand landed on Sam's shoulder, and he wrenched himself away from under it. “We're just encouraging the Russians to consider the redistribution of wealth.”

A few words in Spanish murmured to his men, and Sam was dragged to his feet and away.

 

*

Sam's clothes were cut off, without releasing his wrists, and the hood finally lifted off his head. He was in some sort of warehouse, crowded with stacks of boxes, large power tools, a forklift, and other things Sam couldn't quite make out. It was chilly, dank and damp and dirty.

One of his captors – a scar down the length of his cheekbone, dark hair and dark eyes – shoved him to his knees and held a cell phone out in front of his face. To his utter astonishment, _Castiel's_ face filled the screen, drawn and pale. He could see his own face in the corner of the screen, real-time, his eyes reddened and cheeks streaked with tears.

“ _Solnishko._ ” Castiel's voice was tinny, from the phone. “Are you all right? Have they hurt...”

The phone was whisked away, and the man with the scar leered at it. “Not yet, but we're just about to get started.”

“Santiago, if you lay a finger on him, I swear to God...” The fury in Castiel's voice was palpable, and it made Sam shiver.

“Ciao, bella!!” Santiago mocked, and ended the call with a beep before turning back to Sam, who was frozen with terror.

“Let's start with something easy, yeah? Something to welcome you to our little club. And all you have to do is bend over.” Santiago's grin at Sam was feral. Several of the other men laughed at what was clearly an inside joke.

Rough hands hauled him back to his feet, and someone cut the zip tie binding his wrists. He was shoved face-down, bent at the waist over a metal workbench, which was icy against his skin. Hands yanked his wrists up, and his feet were kicked apart and held in place. Sam tried to struggle, but the men held him still.

Someone yanked his head back, and a moment later there was red-hot metal glowing inches from his eye.

“Like I said, part of the club.” Santiago held the brand close enough that the heat coming off it was painful all on its own, too close for Sam to make out what it said. He moved around the table, to behind Sam, and Sam panicked, trying to writhe. Harsh hands landed on his lower back, pinning him immobile.

“P-please, no....” Sam choked out.

A moment later there was agonizing pain from his right ass cheek, pure, liquid pain, and Sam shrieked, feeling his hold on consciousness slip. The brand was held against him for what felt like forever, Sam unable even to breathe, before finally being lifted away.

His shriek devolved into choking sobs, and the hands pinning him to the table all released him. He couldn't have moved, even if he wanted to, awash with mind-numbing pain.

There was a vicious, open-handed smack across his other ass cheek, and a few moments later someone grabbed a handful of his hair, twisting him and wrenching his face to look back over his own shoulder.

“Smile pretty for the camera.” A flash and a click, someone taking a picture.

Sam couldn't even imagine how angry Castiel was going to be when he saw it.

They let go of his hair, and Sam collapsed back down onto the table with a groan. There was a gentle brush of something against the fresh brand on his ass, and the touch made him arch convulsively, the muscles in his lower back clenching tight. 

That was very definitely tape he felt on his ass – which meant it was probably a bandage of sorts. Once it stopped moving, the pain wasn't quite as unbearable. He managed to get a couple of shallow breaths in through his nose, and some of the greyness faded from his vision.

“See? Easy. What's coming next... maybe not so much.” Santiago chuckled.

Sam's breath froze in his chest.

Someone wrenched his arms back, and bound them cruelly behind his back, his elbows almost touching. They stood him up and walked him to a long steel tub, filled with water. A blow on the back of his left knee sent him crashing to the ground, jolting the brand and sending fresh waves of pain through him. Someone behind him tied his ankles together. He was yanked forward, so that he was bent over at the waist, and a harsh boot on the back of his neck shoved his upper torso, neck, and face under the water.

He'd barely had enough time to gasp a breath before being shoved under. The water was icy cold. They held him under for what felt like a long time, his heart pounding, his lungs burning for air... he tried to squirm out from under the boot, but it simply pushed him deeper.

Black was crawling in from the edges of his vision before they let him up. He lurched above the water, coughing and hauling in breaths, water streaming down his face from his sopping hair.

A harsh hand gripped his hair, wrenching his head back. A hot gob of spit hit his left cheek, before he was carelessly released. A narrow metal bar pressed against the back of his neck, pushing him back down and locking into position, only this time it didn't push him all the way under... if he kept his head tilted as far back as he could, he could keep his nose and mouth above the surface of the water. The bar held him there, preventing him from escape.

It didn't take long before Sam was trembling with the exertion of trying to maintain his position, as well as with the cold. It put a terrific amount of strain on the muscles of his lower back and the back of his neck. His chest was still submerged, and his neck, all the way to his chin, and the skin under the water was already numb.

He discovered rapidly that there was an end to his endurance. He had to take breaks, allowing himself to slump face-first into the water to ease the pressure, holding his breath and keeping his eyes clenched shut. One of the times he came back up for air, Santiago was there in front of him, a cell phone held up, filming Sam.

“ _Mi gatito_ isn't doing so well, Cassie. He's not adjusting great to having baths.” Santiago moved the camera a little closer to Sam's face, hair plastered and covering most of it.

“Can I get some scissors over here? We can't see _el agujero's_ face.”

A vicious hand sank into the hair on the back of Sam's head, holding it up for him. Sam was almost dizzy with relief, and hadn't heard Santiago's words, but sure as hell felt the hair covering his face gripped and sheared off in chunks.

It struck him that Castiel had really liked his hair, liked to run his fingers through it, and that chopping it off was going to make him really, really mad.

The hand let his head go, and he landed face-first in the water with a splash. Santiago pulled the phone back to safety as Sam used his fading strength to pull his head high enough to gasp in some air.

“I'd have thought you'd have him housebroken by now.” Santiago's voice turned musing. “I suppose that's too much to ask from someone like you. A spoiled little rich boy has no place breaking a slave in - you probably just spend all your time decorating him uselessly instead of using him like the hole he is.”

Sam turned pleading eyes up to the phone's empty camera lens, up to Santiago's pitiless gaze.

“Don’t worry, though. By the time we’re done with him, you’ll barely recognize him. You might not even want him anymore!” Santiago burst into laughter and pressed something on the phone, before lowering it.

“Get him out of there. We can't have our bargaining chip drowning. Put him in the corner cell.” Santiago's instructions to his men were in a completely different sort of voice, lacking the gloating superiority that his messages to Castiel did.

The bar was removed, his arms and ankles were released, and Sam was dragged to a small, miserable cell. The walls were cold, corrugated metal, and the only item in it was an empty bucket. Sam laid down on his side, curling up, keeping the brand and its bandage away from the dirty floor. He rubbed his arms for warmth, and to ease the painful stiffness.

He fell asleep, despite the pain and the cold, a bone-deep exhaustion carrying him off, prayers for his _gospodin_ to find him filling his head.

 

*

 

Sam woke to a colossal bang on the metal wall of his cell, consciousness slamming into him, followed a moment later by the realization of where he was and what was happening.

“Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!” Santiago held out a battered yellow plastic bowl to him. Sam lifted himself most of the way to sitting, keeping as much pressure as he could off of his right ass cheek, and took the bowl with shaking hands. Santiago turned and left, slamming the door after him, and the noise seemed to ricochet through Sam's aching head.

Sam frowned down at the contents of the bowl. It seemed to be some sort of very watery oatmeal, or gruel. There wasn't any spoon, so Sam lifted the bowl to his lips, and tilted it up to drink. It was cold, like everything else was here, and flavourless, but Sam downed the entire contents of the bowl, setting it aside when he was done.

It was humiliating to pee into the bucket in the corner, but it wasn't like he had much of a choice.

Santiago returned shortly after, yanked him to his feet and back out to the main room, towards the workbench he'd been branded against. Sam panicked, pulling against his grip, but Santiago spun and landed a hard punch to Sam's gut. Sam doubled over, the wind knocked out of him, and caught a fist, hard, against his left cheekbone.

Dazed and gasping for breath, they bent him over the workbench and tied him in place, ass hanging off one side of it, and head hanging off the other, legs spread wide. As his awareness returned, he heard voices – a lot of voices – jeering and cheering and yelling. He struggled against the harsh rope, feeling it bite into his skin, panic like shards of ice under his ribs.

“Calm down, calm down. I know you're all excited, but you're gonna have to pay up if you want a piece of the Russians' _puta_. A steal at a hundred bucks a shot, either end. Use a rubber or don't, just don't forget to add to the tally!” A roar of laughter went up at his words.

Someone wrenched his mouth open with a cruel grip, as someone else forced something narrow and plastic up his ass, squirting something cold and slick inside of him. A large steel ring was forced between his teeth, the strap cutting into the corners of his mouth and wrenched tight behind his head.

Santiago appeared in front of him again, still wearing the same evil smile. “Let's get some 'before' shots, shall we?”

Sam tried to shoot him a glare, but from the chuckle he got in return, he wasn't certain his message had gotten across.

“Look at that pretty pink hole. Smooth as a baby's bottom!” Santiago crowed, to the delight of the onlookers. “Gentlemen, start your engines!”

Someone stepped up in front of Sam, he saw denim and the ragged hem of a white t-shirt before his head was yanked up by his hair, and a cock shoved into his mouth, hard and deep. He gagged, trying to relax his throat, and trying to keep his meager breakfast down.

Behind him, someone pried his ass cheeks apart, and slapped a hand, hard, against the bandage over his brand. Pain rocketed through him, dimming his vision, and the man in front of him grunted as Sam's throat tightened against him. Sam couldn't even breathe, the man's pelvis pressed hard against his face, as a cock forced its way inside him, searing pain even despite the lube.

The man in front pulled out and came all over Sam's face, before staggering a few steps backwards, while the man behind pounded his ass, bruising Sam's thighs against the edge of the workbench.

Something narrow and cold on his right shoulderblade – the man in front putting his tally on Sam's skin. Sam caught the distinctive smell of permanent marker. The man behind him groaned and stilled, panting hard, and the marker again, starting a tally on Sam's left ass cheek.

Hours... it went on for hours, a seemingly never-ending string of men lined up to use Sam's holes. He was dazed, his vision blurred with come and tears (they seemed to like to come on his face, and particularly into his eyes), his ass loose and gaping. His throat seared under the abuse, and some of the more well-endowed men took it in turns to see how deep they could force their cocks into Sam's throat. A deeper sort of pain developed after one of them who had to be ten inches clamped a hand on the back of Sam's head and forced his entire length down his throat, to the cheers of his friends.

Something happened after that – something broke inside him, and he simply... blanked out. Nothing that was happening to him seemed particularly important, and he felt the tension draining out of his shoulders and back.

He blinked his way back to awareness a little later. He couldn't really see, but the warehouse was quiet. The only person near him was Santiago, who was seated cross-legged on the floor in front of him, taking picture after picture of his come-encrusted face and drooling mouth.

“The 'after' pictures really are something.” Santiago flipped through the images, smiling. His gaze darted up, and he peered at Sam. “Do you really think he's going to want you back after this?”

Sam couldn't even whimper around the pain in his throat. _He will. He will. He... he loves..._

And even in his head, he couldn't finish that sentence. Couldn't convince himself of its truth. Santiago was right – there wasn't any way Castiel was going to want him back after what had been done to him.

“ _Un agujero._ A hole. You know that's what you are, right? Well, two.” Santiago chuckled. 

Sam let his burning eyes close, let his head hang. He felt cavernously empty – in more ways than one. The warm, safe space in his heart where he held his _gospodin_ had been seared and blackened, leaving a charred crater. He was completely alone... after Castiel saw the pictures, the video, the obscene number of black lines drawn on his skin... surely Castiel would simply walk away.

 _Jonah._ Sam choked out a sob at the thought of what Castiel might do to him. Castiel wouldn't need a whipping boy if there wasn't any prince in his life. Or maybe... maybe Castiel would just promote one of the boys from the basement to Sam's spot. It wasn't like Sam was irreplaceable. Anyone could be molded to be what Castiel wanted them to be.

All of the fight seemed to leave Sam's body. He managed a tiny nod, which made Santiago grin.

“Now we're getting somewhere.”

 

*

 

They dragged Sam back to his cell and dropped him unceremoniously on the floor. Sam was too hurt, too exhausted to even move. It took him a long time to even be able to raise a hand to his face, scrubbing the dried, flaking come off his skin and out of his hair. In the absence of water, he didn't really have a lot of success, but trying, at least, made him feel a tiny bit better.

His mouth was foul, sticky and dry. His throat was throbbing and burning. He vaguely remembered throwing up what little fluids he'd had in his stomach, as one of the men from earlier had gone out of his way to make him do so. He needed water, needed food, needed rest...

The door to his cell opened. It was Santiago, with a bottle of water in his hand. He stood gazing down at Sam, crumpled on the floor, his face absolutely neutral. He took the lid off the bottle and raised it to his lips, drinking deeply.

Sam's eyes had been fixed on the water, but realized quickly that Santiago had no intention of giving him any. He shifted a little on the floor, curling into a slightly tighter ball, closing his eyes.

“I gotta say. Your owner's got deep pockets. I don't think we're quite to the bottom of them yet, but I've got something in mind that might help.”

 _... owner?_ A tiny spark of hope ignited in Sam's chest, and his heart stuttered.

“This is gonna kinda suck for you, but you'll have the peace of mind of knowing it's for the greater good.” Santiago smirked as two of his goons dragged Sam from the cell.

 

*

 

The chair that they made him sit on, taped his arms and legs securely to, was agony on the brand, but it kind of faded into white noise the longer it went on. Sam was slumped, his head hanging, too exhausted to even sit up straight.

“And this one's going out live to our favourite Russian.” Santiago spoke to his phone, grinning at the camera. “Starring his favourite pet.” A hand in Sam's hair lifted his face, so it was visible to the camera.

“We're down to the nitty gritty now. You know our demands. How much more are you going to let him suffer before you agree?”

Santiago released his hair, and Sam's head fell forward. He opened bleary eyes to see someone crouched near his right arm, with what looked like a pair of medical forceps in his hand. Fear shot through him, his heart pounding.

“Santiago, don't do this.” Castiel's voice from the speakers of Santiago's phone made Sam whimper. “My offer has been more than reasonable...”

“Go.”

The man near Sam gripped Sam's index finger, opened the forceps, rammed one side of them up under Sam's fingernail, clamped them shut and ripped the nail out.

Sam _howled_ , the sound hoarse and broken through his damaged throat. Agonizing pain, spiking up through his finger and arm.

“Santiago...” Castiel tried again.

“Go.”

Sam's middle finger this time, and somehow, it felt twice as painful. His throat was, too, as the scream was wrenched from it.

“Santiago!!”

“Go.”

Everything was blinding pain, tears pouring down Sam's face, and he hadn't know it was even possible to hurt that much.

“All right! Agreed. I'm transferring the funds now.” Castiel's voice, tight with something Sam couldn't identify.

“And they say you can't reason with a Russian. I'll let my _capitan_ know we have an accord. We'll drop your little _gatito_ off somewhere familiar. I'm sure he'll find his way home.” A soft beep as the call was ended.

Sam couldn't even force his eyes open, chest heaving with his sobs as he felt the tape cut, releasing him from the chair. Clothes were pulled onto him, and judging from the sudden heat of his own breath, the sack pulled back over his head. They didn't bother to zip-tie him, and Sam collapsed against the floor of the van, spending the trip with his cheek against the vibrating floorboards. He drifted somewhere between awareness and sleep, the movement of the vehicle somehow comforting.

What wasn't comforting, however, was when they pulled the hood off and shoved him out of the side of the van. He rolled and ended up flat on his back, staring up at a sky that seemed blinding after the blackness of the hood.

His vision slowly adjusted, and he moved his head a little to the right, seeing some sort of name painted, elaborate swirling script, on the brick wall. It resolved itself into the name of the chocolatier whose premises comprised half of the enclosure of his alley – the alley he used to sell his ass in, in another lifetime.

He let his eyes flicker closed, drifting again.

It felt like moments later that careful hands were picking him up, carrying him gently. There were soft voices around him, murmured Russian, and Sam felt all of the tension, all of the worry fall away, replaced with overwhelming relief. It left him limp and trembling.

There was what felt like a short trip, in an air-conditioned vehicle, the person who was holding him still cradling him gently. He was jostled a little, and then there were warm lips pressed against his forehead, and Castiel's soothing, calming voice.

“Rest, dear one. You're safe. You're home. Rest, and when you wake, you won't be in any pain. Rest.”

There was the soft pinch of an injection in Sam's shoulder. Sam managed a sigh and a murmured _gospodin_ , before the drug pulled him under.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Solnishko Versus Sammy's Time at Stanford: When AUs Collide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13291260) by [ZoyciteM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoyciteM/pseuds/ZoyciteM)
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